ChristianWorldView-Steve

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 13)

2009-01-22T07:01:00.000-05:00

LV.

Marshal Hickok and Leo Moretti, the bartender, ran into the Alamo Saloon. Mitchell was lying on the floor. A pool of blood was slowly expanding on the wooden floor surrounding Mitchell’s right shoulder. Mitchell, flat on his back, was staring at the ceiling, holding his left hand on the wound and moaning in pain.

Hickok ran to the lad and knelt down beside him. Mitchell turned his head and looked into Hickok’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Jim.”

“How bad are you hurt?”

Mitchell coughed and moistened his lips with his tongue. He was about to speak when the doors of the saloon swung open. Abe Jackson, the Texas Ranger, rushed in, followed closely by Doc Minnick.

Jackson pointed. “There he is, Doc.”

Doc Minnick hastened to Mitchell’s side, opposite Hickok. He knelt down and set his medical bag on the floor. “Lie still, son.”

The doctor withdrew a pair of scissors from his bag and cut away the bloodiest part of Mitchell’s shirt. Then he examined the wound. He withdrew a sterile bandage from his bag and placed it over the bullet hole. “Here, Marshal, keep pressure on the bandage.” He glanced up at Jackson and Moretti. “You men, pick him up and carry him outside to my wagon. Two of you will have to ride along
so you can carry him into my office. Be careful of his shoulder. His collar bone is broken. Try to keep pressure on the wound to keep down the bleeding.”

LVI.

After Doc Minnick pulled up in front of his office, Hickok and Jackson carried Mitchell into the building. Doc Minnick directed the men to a back room where they laid Mitchell onto a table.

“I’ll take care of him from here.”

“How is he, Doc?” Hickok asked.

“He should be fine. Now let me get to work.”

Hickok and Jackson walked out of the room into the front office. “Okay, spill it,” Hickok said.

“Nothing much to tell, Marshal. He started gettin’ liquored up and accused me of being responsible for him losing his job. Next thing I know, he’s drawing down on me.”

“Yeah, I figured all that. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What then?”

“Mitchell’s left-handed. You plugged him in the right shoulder. That means you took the chance of spinning his shootin’ hand around toward you. If you weren’t going to kill him, why didn’t you shoot him in the left shoulder to spin his gun away from you? Mitchell’s fast enough that he might have put a bullet in you, even though you got one into him first.”

Jackson remained silent for a moment. “That’s a clever observation, Marshal.” He smiled slightly and then looked down at his right arm.

Hickok looked too. Jackson’s shirt sleeve was torn in a neat horizontal slit!

Jackson looked up, still smiling. “He is fast, Marshal.”

Hickok was stunned. “Are you hurt, man?”

“No, it’s just a scratch. Another few inches, though, and it coulda got real serious quick.”

“You took an awful chance, Ranger.”

“Yeah, well, I thought it was better not to put his shootin’ arm out of action in case you planned to hire him on again. Once you take out a fella’s arm with a bullet, it’s never the same.”

Hickok glanced down and then nodded slowly. “Well, even though Mitchell probably doesn’t know it yet, he owes you a lot. For that matter, I do too. Thanks, Ranger.”

“So, why did ya fire Mitchell? Seems to me you’re gonna be short-handed at a time when you need help the most. I already warned you, Marshal. The Staytons are on their way. Every day that goes by, they’re gettin’ closer. I can feel it. And they’ll hit this town like a tornado comin’ down main street.”

“As far as help is concerned, I’ve already contacted a deputy out of Dodge City. A fella named Ed Clayborn. Ever hear of him?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Well, this Clayborn fella was working with Billy Brooks. Brooks and Clayborn were hired as private lawmen by some of the merchants in Dodge. Recently the two lost their jobs when the townsfolk formed a vigilance committee to takeover enforcing the law. Anyway, according to my old buddy, Charlie Bassett, down in Dodge, this Ed Clayborn is good with a gun and has a level head on his shoulders. I wanted to wait until me and Mitchell had our talk this morning before I committed to hiring Clayborn. Seeing what’s happened, I better send a telegram to Clayborn to tell him he’s hired. He said he could get here in a couple of weeks.”

LVII.

Julie Weber closed the Bible and stood up. She had finished reading the entire Book of St. Luke. Even the notion of a classroom devoid of students could not dim the joy she felt from reading about her Savior.

She drew in a deep breath and stretched. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you very, very much.” She reached into her bag and withdrew two apples. One was for her lunch, the other was for Grace.

When Julie stepped outside, she was struck by the beauty of a heaven of blue sky and a carpet of green grass dotted with wildflowers.

Grace had looked over at the sound of the door, and the horse nickered when she saw Julie.

Julie walked over to Grace and patted the animal on the neck. “Hi girl. Here, come with me.”

Julie led Grace to a nearby tree and then sat down in the grass. She held out one of the apples for Grace.

After a moment, Julie took a bite of her own apple. Her gaze fell upon the lonely road that led to the center of town. One day, sure enough, the children would be traversing that road to and from school. It would happen, no doubt. In her mind, she clearly saw the picture of children on the road, as if it were happening that very moment.

She closed her eyes and then drew in a breath and exhaled. The apple was sweet and juicy. She felt a slight breeze lift a few strands of her hair. Having chewed the apple thoroughly, she swallowed. “Thank you, Lord, for your love and utter goodness. Thank you for erasing all those negative thoughts! I was acting childishly. Forgive me, dear Lord for being so willful. I forgot that everything happens in Your time, not mine. I’m so thankful to You, Lord, for the gift of salvation and for all the good things You provide. How very blessed I am! How very great and beautiful You are—so very worthy of praise and adoration. You’ve washed away all my cares. How can my heart feel anything other than total thankfulness when You’re always here with me, caring for me, and nurturing me with Your mercy and love? I am Yours, totally. Do with me what You will! Keep me humble, dear Lord, that I may be a good and faithful servant. Nothing else matters. No, nothing else matters a whit!”

She stood up with tears of thankfulness in her eyes. How very great was her Lord!

She patted Grace on the neck and held out the remainder of her apple, which the animal gladly took into its mouth and chewed with a few loud crunches. “And you’re an absolutely beautiful girl. I love you, Grace.”

A few minutes later, Julie walked back into the schoolhouse. “Okay. Now what? Something tells me I should stay until school lets out. How would it look if a student did show up, and the teacher was playing hooky? No, we mustn’t ever let that happen! So now, Julie, how is the best way to fill the time between now and three o’clock?”

She glanced down at the open Bible on her desk. “Of course. How could I do anything better than to spend time in Your Word, dear Lord?”

LVIII.

Ed Clayborn placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. He lifted the reins, and the horse stepped out in a lively trot and then accelerated to a smooth and easy three-beat gait.

Clayborn was not quite six feet tall in his boots with two inch heels. His dark complexion, along with piercing brown eyes and almost black eyebrows, intensified the impact of a normally serious expression that seemed to imply the dangerous question, “Are you gonna force me to kill ya?”

Raised on a small ranch in west Texas, Clayborn had grown up learning the ways of men who cared for, herded, and drove cattle. Ranching was hard work, but Clayborn had taken it in stride, knowing no other way to make a living.

By the time he was twenty years old, he had made several trips north on large cattle drives. He had accepted the long days in the saddle and the nights that were much too short to ever catch up on sleep. The harsh conditions were simply part of the job to get the cattle to market. He also learned much from the tough breed of men he rode with. For the most part, they were serious types whose chief concern was the welfare of the herd.

On the drives, after the drovers and the cattle had completed their wearisome trip north, the cattle were herded into gigantic pens, and the shared responsibility of looking after the herd was lifted from Clayborn’s shoulders. With an exhilarating sense of freedom and the satisfaction of a job well done, he, like the rest of the cowpokes, dutifully lined up to receive their long-awaited pay. The cash was showered upon him like the drenching of a waterfall. He found that he could avail himself of all the seedy pleasures offered by a cattle town, and at the end of his stay still have a few dollars left over. Inevitably, however, the time always came to head back south and begin the process all over again.

After Clayborn’s numerous trips back and forth, the adventure of the job began to fade. The work had degenerated into a tiresome routine, and he began to seek other employment. His toughness and his ability to handle a gun eventually landed him a job as a deputy in a small town. There, over the stretch of two years, Clayborn learned the trade of a lawman. He quickly adjusted to the lifestyle of staying in one place, and each night he appreciated slipping his boots under the same comfortable bed.

Eventually he heard of an open deputy’s position in a bigger town that offered more pay. He applied for the job and was hired. After a few years in that town, he heard of a job offered in Dodge City. Again he migrated north and hired on in Dodge as an assistant to William “Billy” Brooks, a former buffalo hunter, stagecoach driver, and most recently, a city marshal for the wild cattle town of Newton, Kansas.

Clayborn, accustomed to quiet law-abiding towns, had had a rude awakening when he rode into Dodge, and he
had never gotten over the regret of leaving his former position. Dodge was a wildly violent town, and Billy Brooks was just as wild and violent. In his first month alone, Brooks had been involved in an average of one gunfight every two days! In a single particularly bloody incident, Brooks had killed four men. The officials of Dodge had come to question Brooks’ tactics, but when he was accused of murdering a man in a dispute over a dancehall girl, he was summarily dismissed.

At about that time, Marshal Hickok in Abilene began looking for a potential replacement for Deputy Mitchell. Clayborn, having no wish to remain another day in Dodge, quickly answered Hickok’s appeal.

On the morning of the fifth day of Clayborn’s travel out of Dodge en route to Abilene, he topped a small rise and pulled up.

There, before him on the plains, a herd of bison was grazing. The guttural grunts and groans of the great beasts filled the air as they meandered westward. Their number of about fifty comprised a few bulls, mostly cows, and several calves.

Clayborn sat quietly in the saddle, watching the animals. He remembered that in his younger days he had seen herds so large that they had reminded him of a flowing river that stretched almost from horizon to horizon. Those were the days before the Civil War had ended. Now the white man had come with his rifles, and he slaughtered the animals for their hides. Gone were tens of millions of the animal. Soon gone too would be the lifestyle of the Indians who depended on the bison for food, and who made use of every part of the relatively few animals they killed.

In the early evening, Clayborn rode into Great Bend, named for its location on a near-half-circle zigzag in the Arkansas River.

Great Bend also sat on the Santa Fe Trail, a major transportation route connecting Franklin, Missouri, with Santa Fe, New Mexico. The trail served as a vital commercial and military highway, opening the region to economic development and settlement.

In not-so-distant years, Great Bend had been plagued with numerous raids by hostile Indians from various tribe factions, including those of the Comanche, Cheyenne, and Apache. Clayborn knew, however, that most of the unrest had ended about four years ago, evidenced by the decommissioning of nearby Fort Zarah and the coming of the railroad about a year ago. The guise of civilization, however, meant letting down one’s guard only for fools. Whereas men of the time had experienced and survived the violence of the recent past, they inevitably carried it forward in their attitudes and actions.

Clayborn had passed through Great Bend on previous occasions, as the town had always been a place for passing through more than for anything else. Great Bend, in fact, had been a passing-through point for such men as Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Buffalo Bill Cody, and General George Armstrong Custer.

Riding down the bustling main street of Great Bend, Clayborn was struck by the same notion he had had in Dodge: This point on the map had drawn the class of people that the cattle trade normally attracted; that is, mostly thugs and harlots, banes to every community seeking to civilize itself.

He pulled up the reins in front of the saloon that looked the most peaceful. At least, it was the biggest, and he hoped it meant it was the most peaceful. Before he swung down from the saddle, however, he unstrapped the thong on his pistol.

When he entered the saloon, he walked to the bar and ordered whiskey. About six other men were lined up abreast at the bar. Behind him, the smoky room droned with loud indistinguishable conversations of men at tables, punctuated occasionally with abrasive laughter when a cowpoke won a hand at poker. A rather large man wearing a dirty gray hat and smelling like the rotting flesh of a buffalo bellied up to the bar beside Clayborn. As the man raised his arm and called to the bartender, he leaned to one side. His bulk shoved Clayborn sideways, causing Clayborn to spill his drink onto the bar.

Clayborn felt the tingle of hot blood rush into his ears, always an indicator of instinctual rage that was part of his temperamental side. The large man was drunk, however, and Clayborn judged that the action had been unintentional. He stepped back from the bar and looked down its length to pick an open spot to which he could move.

As Clayborn stepped back, the space beside the large man opened up, and the man sprawled out even more. The man’s arm he was using to prop himself up slid into the spilled whiskey, and he glanced down, annoyed. He looked around at Clayborn. “Hey, fella, you’re a sloppy rascal. You got my arm all wet!”

Clayborn blinked slowly and tightened one side of his mouth, thinking, “That’s about right. The drunk spills my whiskey and then he blames me.”

“You need to be taught some manners, mister!” the large man bellowed.

Clayborn stepped farther back, out of range, in case the man decided to swing at him. But the drunk straightened up, squared off, and lowered his hand to his side. His body language meant only one thing.

“You’re drunk, mister. And I could outdraw you when you were pure sober. I apologize for spilling my drink, and I’ll be glad to pay to have your shirt cleaned.”

The man was unmoved. “Yeah, but who’s gonna teach ya some manners?”

Looking into the man’s eyes, Clayborn shook his head. “Don’t do this. Not over a shirt. I’ll buy you a new one.”

By now, however, Clayborn had already heard the scrape of chair legs on the floor. Then, as if everyone else in the saloon simultaneously spied the two men squared off, the room erupted into the roar of men scrambling to escape the line of fire. Clayborn mourned the sound, because with everyone watching, the large man would believe he could not possibly back down. Clayborn grew wary to perceive the man’s initial move and reluctantly accepted the notion he was about to kill another man.

Clayborn watched the man’s eyes glance around the room. For an instant the man’s facial expression changed, as he realized everyone was watching him and that the situation had turned ominously to that of life and death.

When the man’s gaze again fell upon Clayborn, Clayborn knew the time had come and, as he had predicted, the man’s hand moved in a snake-like quickness to his gun.

Without hesitation, Clayborn drew and fired. The bullet penetrated just below the breast bone, thrusting the large man back against the bar. Clayborn crouched, ready to fire a second shot, if necessary. But the bullet had struck with particular finality, and Clayborn saw that another shot was not required.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clayborn saw flame belch from iron and heard the first of two shots fired by a stranger to his left. Clayborn whirled and saw two men standing behind him—two men who had intended to shoot him in the back when their friend, the large man, had been killed.

The stranger fired the second shot so quickly that the sounds of the two shots combined into a single percussion that rocked the room. Both men went down, the first one falling flat on a table as a result of being shot low in the stomach, the other man hurled backwards as a result of a bullet between the eyes.

Clayborn and the stranger stood their ground, weapons at the ready, in case any others in the crowd wished to press the point. None did.

“Much obliged, mister,” Clayborn said, never meaning words so earnestly. A shiver raced down his spine as he realized how close he had come to death.

The stranger glanced over and nodded. Then he plucked two cartridges from his gun belt and reloaded the weapon on the spot. After he holstered his pistol, the stranger turned back to the bar. “Whiskey.”

LIX.

On Friday at about noon, Julie heard a knock on the schoolhouse door. Sitting at her desk, she had been absorbed in the Book of Romans, written in the early spring of A.D. 57 by the apostle Paul in Corinth to the church at Rome to explain the Good News of salvation.

She stood up and walked to the door. When she opened it, she was pleasantly surprised to see Parson Blane. He smiled and said, “Hello, Miss Weber, I hope I’m not disturbing you. I figured you probably take a lunch break around noon, and I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Hello, Parson. You’re not disturbing me at all. I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

After Blane removed his hat and stepped through the doorway, he looked around in amazement. “Where’s the children?”

“If you’ve come to see children, Parson, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to their homes and pry them away from chores.”

“You mean the children haven’t come to school?”

Julie looked up into his eyes. “Not one for the entire week.”

“Oh, Julie. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“But why are you here if there’s no students?”

“I’m here because I’m the teacher, and this is a school day. This is where I belong, and I’ve decided I’ll stay here everyday whether the children come or not.”

“Humph.” Blane glanced into her eyes and nodded. “I understand.”

“What do you have there in your hand?”

“It’s what I’ve written so far.”

“Of course. Your treatise on the Book of St. Luke.”

“I thought...well...you said you might help me by taking a look at it.”

“I’d be happy to, Parson. Here, let me see.”

She reached out, and Blane glanced down, noticing a beautifully feminine hand.

“I figured I’d drop it off so you could look it over when you have some free time. I don’t need it back right away. I thought I’d take a break from writing for a few days.”

“All right. Would you like me to give it back to you at church on Sunday? That way, you won’t have to make a special trip out here next week.”

“Oh, I don’t mind making the trip.”

Julie glanced up and smiled. “All right.”

Blane watched her turn and place the pages on her desk. “Well, uh, I guess I better get going.”

“Thank you for stopping by, Parson.”

“My pleasure, Miss Weber. Thank you for taking a look at what I’ve written. I hope you can read my chicken scratch.”

“From what I’ve glimpsed, it looks like you have nice penmanship. I don’t think I’ll have any problems at all.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled.

Blane found himself smiling too. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. As he was putting on his hat, he said, “That’s a good-looking palomino.”

Julie followed him out the door and walked past him to the horse. “Parson Blane, I’d like you to meet Grace, the prettiest mare in the West!”

Blane chuckled. He took off his hat and bowed from the waist, “Hello, Grace. I believe Miss Weber is right. You’re about the prettiest horse I’ve seen in a long, long time.”

Julie laughed. “And this one is yours.” She stepped around Grace to the Black. “He’s beautiful, Parson.”

“Thank you. That’s part of why I need to take a break from writing for a few days. The big boy needs some exercise.” He walked over and patted the animal on the chest.

“Where do you ride?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few favorite spots.” He turned toward Julie. “Maybe you and I could go on a ride together sometime.”

She glanced up. “May...be.”

LX.

When James Gainsford, the Marshal of Great Bend, rushed into the saloon and saw three men dead on the floor, he was furious. He walked over to the bartender. “What happened, Joe?”

“That big man on the floor started a fight with that man.” The bartender pointed at Clayborn. “Then the other two on the floor were about to shoot him in the back, when that man gunned them down.” He pointed at the stranger who had saved Clayborn’s life. “Everyone saw it, Marshal. The big man started the whole thing.”

Gainsford pointed at Clayborn and the stranger. “You two come with me.”

“What for?” the stranger protested.

“You’re gonna fill out a report and then you’re gonna get out of town. That’s what for!”

“We didn’t do anything wrong, Marshal.”

“According to the law, that’s right. But we got a rule in this town. If you murder a man, you go to jail. If you kill a man in self-defense, you fill out a report and you leave town. It’s either that, or I throw you in jail until you fill out a report and leave town. That’s the rule. No argument.”

“Marshal?” the bartender said, crooking his finger.

Gainsford leaned over and the bartender whispered, “I’ve seen a lot of gunplay in here. But, Marshal, never in my life have I seen someone as fast with a gun as that one.” He nodded toward the stranger.

Gainsford straightened up and looked the bartender in the eyes. The bartender raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Okay,” Gainsford said, “I always check them against wanted posters anyway. Thanks, Joe.”

An hour later Clayborn and the stranger, who had said his name was George Digby, walked out of the marshal’s office. Digby turned to Clayborn. “So, you’re a lawman going to Abilene? I’m on my way to Abilene too. I got some business there. Mind if I ride along?”

“Not at all. It’ll make the trip go faster. But I’m bushed. I won’t be able to ride far tonight.”

“Well, we can’t stay in town, otherwise Gainsford is gonna throw us in jail. I don’t like being pushed though.”

Clayborn glanced over. “The marshal seemed serious enough, and this town is nothin’ but trouble. What do ya say we mount up? Where’s your horse?”

“In front of the saloon.”

“Yeah, mine too. Let’s get goin’.”

The two mounted up and rode north out of town. The temperature had cooled from what had been a hot day, and the moon was almost full, which provided ample light to see the trail.

They rode for about an hour. Clayborn felt weary, and his eyelids continually drooped. Finally, Digby said, “What about over there in that stand of trees? I’ll build a fire, and then we can get some sleep.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

A half hour later, Digby had lit the fire and put on coffee. Clayborn had rolled up in his blanket and lay motionless. Digby could hear Clayborn’s steady breathing, interspersed with faint snoring.

Digby sat by the fire for almost a quarter of an hour, drinking coffee and occasionally glancing at Clayborn. All the while he carefully listened to Clayborn’s breathing to detect any change.

Finally, Digby stood up and walked over to Clayborn. He stood motionless for several moments. Then he knelt down and quietly began rummaging through Clayborn’s gear.

Clayborn was traveling light. One saddlebag was filled with a few personal items: a shaving kit, a small mirror, and a hair brush. Alongside the kit were a couple of boxes of handgun ammunition and a box of rifle shells.

The other saddlebag contained a change of clothes: a shirt, pants, a couple of pairs of socks, and a bandana. At the bottom of the saddlebag beneath the clothes, Digby found a spare pistol. He looked over at Clayborn for a moment, making sure the man was still asleep. He then strapped the saddlebags closed.

He stood up and once again looked at Clayborn. He stood motionless for several moments, watching the man. Then he stepped over to the fire and sat down. After he had finished drinking the rest of his coffee, he spread out his bedroll and lay down. But he did not close his eyes.

When the sun came up, Clayborn’s dream gently deposited him on the doorstep of wakefulness. He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. After a moment, he rolled over. Digby was sitting by the fire, pointing a gun at him!

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 12)

2009-01-22T06:46:00.001-05:00

XLVII.

Julie Weber stepped out of the church into the late-morning air. The sun had proudly positioned itself in the heavens at an angle to cast yellow and gold beams that kissed Julie’s neck and arms with precisely the right temperature to make her smile and say a silent prayer of gratitude.

The congregation members who had walked out in front of her had gathered into small groups, everyone talking at once, each trying to speak above the others, so that the scene reminded Julie of vigorously clucking chickens at feeding time.

Ever so faintly she heard Reverend Wilcox behind her speaking to Parson Blane. “How’s the book going?”

“Oh, it’s coming along, Reverend. I have several pages of the first draft written, and I’m enjoying the work immensely.”

“Since you’re on sabbatical, Parson, I suppose I should refrain from inviting you to deliver a sermon. Nevertheless, would you consider speaking in perhaps a month?”

“I’m always at your disposal, Reverend.”

“Good, my son. I’ll let you know the details next Sunday.”

“All right, Reverend.”

Their voices trailed off and Julie pictured in her mind the tall, ruggedly handsome Parson Blane stepping across the threshold into the open air. She turned around, and, for an ever-so-fleeting moment, privately gazed upon the man who had kept her heart astir from the first time she had seen him. When he glanced up at her, he smiled.

Julie smiled too. “Hello, Parson Blane. I’m Julie Weber. I know you know my name already, but we’ve never been introduced.”

“Yes ma’am, I know your name. Good morning to you.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Blane glanced around and then looked up to see wispy white clouds drifting high in the sky to the west. He nodded. “Certainly is, Miss Weber. The Lord is surely smiling on us today.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re writing a book. May I ask what kind of book it is?”

“Some of the congregation members asked me to write a treatise on the Book of St. Luke.”

“Oh how interesting! I particularly love that book, because Luke seems to give the most details of all the gospel writers. How’s your treatise coming along?”

“It’s coming along.” He glanced into her eyes. “A bit slow, but it’s coming along.”

Julie bowed her head. “If you wouldn’t think me forward, perhaps I could offer to help.”

“Oh, are you a writer, Miss Weber?”

“No, Parson. But I do happen to know a bit about publishing. My Uncle Otto in Philadelphia is quite a successful publisher. I grew up around the business. And then too, my major in college was English.”

“Well, I certainly could use help with grammar and spelling.”

“I could do that, no problem. You don’t have an editor already, do you?”

“An editor? No, Miss Weber, I’m afraid the project is not that sophisticated. It’s just me scribbling on paper.”

Julie pressed her fingertips to her lips and giggled. “You’re so modest. I’m sure it’s more than that.”

A voice called out, “Oh, Sam, there you are.” Julie glanced around to see Faye Spencer hurrying toward the two of them. Faye walked up to Blane and placed her hand on his arm. “Oh, hello Julie,” she said coolly. “Sam, I want to ask if you’re free Tuesday evening. I’d like you to come to dinner.”

Blane glanced at Julie and tipped his hat. “Would you excuse us, Miss Weber?”

“Of course.”

Blane turned and walked a few steps away with Faye. “Faye, I’ve mentioned this to you before. I’m not interested in seeing you socially.”

“Why not? You’re not telling me you’re infatuated with that new school teacher, are you?”

“You can be quite vicious when you want to be, Faye. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“It’s only a late dinner. Just you and me, Sam.”

“That’s another thing. I don’t think it’s wise for you to call me Sam when everyone else calls me Parson. I mean, the familiarity of it. People might get the wrong impression.”

“Oh Sam. We’ve been through so much together. It would seem odd to me to begin calling you Parson Blane again.”

“All the same, I must insist.”

“My, you seem so standoffish today. Is something bothering you? Do you feel well?”

“I feel fine—”

“Parson Blane?” Deputy Mitchell had walked up behind them. “Excuse me, Parson. Are you busy? I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

“Sam,” Faye said, “I’ll leave you two to talk. Can I expect you for dinner on Tuesday?”

“No,” Blane said, exasperated.

“Well, all right. Another time perhaps.” She stood, looking up at Blane, expecting a reply. But he said nothing. Finally she turned. “Well, okay. We’ll just have to make it another time.”

Blane turned to Mitchell. As he did, he glanced in Julie’s direction. She had turned and he watched her walking away.

“Parson?”

“Yes, what is it?” Blane said, still watching Julie.

Mitchell followed Blane’s gaze and saw the young school teacher. “Pretty girl, isn’t she.”

Blane glanced back at Mitchell. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”

“That’s the trouble. I’m not the deputy right now. Marshal Hickok suspended me. I’d like you to talk to him so I can get my job back.”

“Tell you what, Deputy…or should I call you…what is your first name anyway?”

“It’s Bob, but just keep calling me Deputy. I’ll have my job back before long.”

“All right, Deputy. Tell you what. I’m heading over to the café for breakfast. Why don’t you come along, and you can tell me what happened.”

“Oh, Parson, you know me well enough. Can’t you just talk to Marshal Hickok and ask him to give me my job back?”

“Well, Deputy, if Marshal Hickok suspended you, I’m believing he had a reason. He’s a seasoned lawman who commands a lot of respect. It would be presumptuous of me to ask him to reverse a decision he made in the line of duty.”

“Aw, come on, Parson. Marshal Hickok thinks a lot of you. If you would just ask him to give me my job back, it would carry a lot of weight.”

“No, my friend. I think it’s better I don’t get involved. Sorry, Deputy. You’re gonna have to talk to the marshal yourself.”

Blane patted the lad on the shoulder and then turned.

“All right, Parson. I’ll tell you what happened.”

Blane stopped and thought for a moment. Then he turned back to the young man. “If you have something troubling you, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But you must understand I’m not obligating myself to talk to the marshal for you.”

Mitchell glanced down. “Okay. I’ll go to the café with you. After you hear what happened, you might decide to talk to Hickok for me.”

XLVIII.

The waitress had already poured fresh coffee for Blane and Mitchell. When she returned to the table, she asked, “Whatcha having, Parson?”

“Two eggs over easy and a steak.” Blane glanced at Mitchell. “Order what you want, Deputy. It’s on me.”

“I’ll take the same.”

The waitress jotted on the pad she held. “Comin’ right up.”

Blane stirred the coffee into which he had placed a small amount of honey. Then he looked up at Mitchell. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

“It all started when that Texas Ranger came to town. You know, Abe Jackson. He got the drop on me. Marshal Hickok said my ‘attitude’ is all wrong and then he suspended me. I’m supposed to see him in the office tomorrow. He said he’d reinstate me if my attitude has changed. But you know Hickok. He can be finicky. He just might keep me suspended for a while. Heck, there’s nothin’ wrong with my attitude!”

“Sounds like Marshal Hickok feels responsible for your safety. When he heard that Jackson got the drop on you, he must have become angry or scared that you could have been killed. I suppose the marshal thinks you’ve got the kind of attitude that can get you into bigger trouble than you can handle.”

“That’s baloney! Outside of Hickok himself, I’m the fastest man with a gun in the territory. I thought you knew that.”

“I’m sure there’s more to being a good lawman than being fast with a gun.”

“Like what?”

“From what you’ve said, your problem doesn’t have to do with how you handle a gun. It has to do with the idea that, because you wear a badge, you feel superior to those who don’t.”

Mitchell looked up at Blane. “I didn’t come here to be insulted, Parson.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was too blunt. I didn’t mean—”

Mitchell stood up abruptly. “I came here because I thought you could help me get my job back. I can see now you don’t understand at all.”

“Wait, Deputy.”

“No thanks, Parson. Eat your breakfast alone!”

Blane watched Mitchell stomp to the counter and call to the cook through the serving window, “Cancel my order. I’m leaving.” Then he walked past Blane without a glance and out of the café.

The waitress came up to the table. “What was that about?”

Blane glanced into her eyes. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

XLIX.

Julie was glad when the morning rays of the sun penetrated her window. Anticipating her first day of teaching school, she had slept little during the night, even though she had taken a relaxing bath before going to bed.

Her goal of becoming a school teacher had developed early in her youth. Sitting in a small classroom when she was ten years old, she had realized how very much she loved to improve her mind and to acquire new ideas. The books she read, for example, fired her imagination with people she had never met and places she had never visited. Through grand narratives, however, which
illuminated her mind with stories and descriptions that titillated her senses, she gained enjoyment and knowledge second only to direct experience.

If books were the key to unlocking the imagination, then reading was the key to unlocking books. With respect to a life goal, the next logical step, Julie figured, would be to dedicate herself to teaching children to read. Before she had turned eleven years old, she had decided, therefore, to become a teacher.

Through the rest of her school years, she carefully studied each of her instructors, noticing their methods and means of imparting knowledge. As she matured, her life goal evolved from the idea of merely teaching children to read to advocating the importance of one’s entire formal education.

After she was graduated from high school, she attended a teacher’s college in Philadelphia and received her teaching certificate. And now, finally, after all the years of preparation and anticipation, she had acquired her first teaching assignment—in a dusty rough-and-tumble town on the American frontier. Today was the first day of her teaching career, and, as she hurried down the stairs, she felt like she would burst from sheer enthusiasm.

Before she entered the dining room she stopped and drew in a breath. “Slow down, Julie. Compose yourself. Remember to breathe!”

When she walked into the dining room, all the boarders were already seated. Tim Barlow, a clerk at Hazlett’s General store, sat erect in the chair across from hers. He glanced up and smiled.

Gus Schmidt, the potbellied carpenter, was sipping coffee from an oversized cup.

Zeke Borland, the oldest of the boarders, was speaking to Mrs. Pemberton, who despite her efforts to appear interested, seemed to Julie to be listening only out of courtesy. Finally, Leo Moretti, who tended bar at the Alamo Saloon, was stoic as usual, staring ahead, fixated on a distant point in space.

Mrs. Pemberton, grateful that Julie’s entrance had broken the maddening spell that had caused her to endure the pointless story in which Borland had persisted, said, “Good morning, Julie.” Then to prompt speech by someone other than Borland, she asked, “Well dear, today’s the big day for you, isn’t it?”

Julie smiled as she walked to her chair, “Yes it is, Mrs. Pemberton.”

Borland, realizing he had lost his audience of one, looked over. “Oh, what’s going on today that’s so big about it?”

Mrs. Pemberton turned to Borland, “It’s Julie’s first day of teaching school.”

Borland paused for what seemed like an eternity, which he was wont to do, “Oh, that’s nice.”

“Now, you be firm with those children,” Mrs. Pemberton said. “There must be discipline and order in a classroom
before it’s a fit place to learn. Don’t hesitate to lay down the law right away.”

“That’s right, Julie,” Borland added. “Show ‘em who’s boss.”

“Well,” Julie said, “if they challenge me, I’ll pick one student and make an example of him. That’s what they taught us in the education classes I took in college.”

“Oh, have no doubt,” Mrs. Pemberton said, “the students will challenge you soon enough. It’s the nature of children to find out where the line is drawn. Even then, you may find one who tries to step across it from time to time. Strict but fair, that’s how a teacher should be.”

“I’ll try my hardest, Mrs. Pemberton.”

L.

At half past eight, Julie sat down in the chair behind the small teacher’s desk. She had already walked around the room, aligning the student desks in perfectly straight rows. The smell of mildew was gone, having been washed away two days prior when she and Charli had thoroughly scrubbed the room with soap and water. The floor had remained damp only in a few scattered spots, but every speck of dust was gone.

With a half hour to spare before school was to begin, Julie reviewed her lesson plans. From the numerous books on her desk, she withdrew the history book and turned to the section on the Declaration of Independence. She would begin the class with an introduction to the founding of the United States.

Her gaze fell upon the preamble of the Declaration:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness....

“What noble and inspiring words!” she thought. “Yes, the children must be taught about their own wonderful nation that was created upon those sacred ideas.”

The schoolroom was quiet except for the slight creak of her chair whenever she shifted her position. Only ten more minutes, and the children would be filing into the classroom.

She bowed her head and prayed. She thanked God Almighty, through Jesus Christ, for the awesome responsibility to help shape the minds of children, whom she hoped would one day grow up to be leaders in their fields. Then she solemnly asked for guidance, patience, and strength on this, her first day of teaching.

When she raised her head and opened her eyes, the time was precisely nine o’clock.

LI.

The door to the marshal’s office squeaked as it opened. Marshal James Butler Hickok looked up to see Mitchell stick his head in. “Jim?”

“Yes, Mitchell, come in.”

Mitchell stepped in and walked to the desk. “I’m sorry for what happened, Marshal.”

“I’d like to believe that, Mitchell. But my guess is that you’re sorry you lost your badge, not so much sorry for what caused you to lose it.”

“What’s the difference?”

“That’s just it. You don’t know.”

“You mean, because that Texas Ranger outdrew me? Look, Jim, he caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

Hickok looked into the lad’s eyes and slowly shook his head.

“What?”

“How many times have I told you that being a lawman has nothing to do with how fast you are with a gun?”

“What then?”

“You’ve been with me for over a year, and you still have no idea. Look, Bob, I know life has been tough on you. Your father died when you were young, and you’ve had to look after your mother and sister for all these years. When your mother came to me and asked if I could give you a job, she made me promise I’d watch out for you. I knew the job would mean a regular income for you and your family―something to put food on the table. I also thought I could teach you the business of being a lawman. But I guess some men aren’t cut out to wear a badge.”

“What are you talking about, Jim? I’ve done fine, except for that one time with the Ranger.”

“It only takes one time, Bob.” Hickok leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “If something ever happened to you, son, while you were wearing a badge, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And I don’t know how I could ever face your mother again. I think it’s best we end this now, before you wind up in an early grave.”

“Aw, Jim, come on.”

“No, Bob, I’ve made up my mind.”

“You mean you’re firing me for good?”

“That’s right, Bob. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you no-good coyote! You never did plan on giving me my badge back, did ya?”

“I told you it depended on our talk today. You’ve convinced me you’re not cut out for the job.”

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

“When you find that out, come back and we’ll talk again. Good luck to you, Bob. Oh, and one more thing. Be careful about who you’re calling names. I’ll let it go this time, but don’t let it happen again.”

LII.

The time for school to start came and went. At quarter after nine, Julie stood up and walked to the door. When she stepped out, she peered down the dusty road leading into the heart of town. No one was on the road.

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.

She walked a few steps and sat down on a stump, all the while watching the road. She heard the call of an eagle overhead and saw the wind kick up a small dust devil on the road. Before long she cupped her face with her hands and sobbed.

After a time she stood up and blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. Slumped like a whipped dog, she walked back into the schoolhouse. She sat down at the desk. For several long minutes, she noticed her train of thought. It was all negative. Had she been wrong to come to this God-forsaken land of endless plains and to a town with crooked wooden buildings and dust so thick she could taste it?

Well, no one could say she had not been warned. Her mother had pleaded with her to stay in the East, close to the security of home. Her father had placed his arm around her and asked her to stay. It was the only time she had ever seen tears in his eyes.

“God-forsaken”? She recalled that those were the words of the man on the stage she had ridden to Abilene. Curtly, she had informed him that God could indeed be found in this brutal land, if one only looked at it in the right way. But now, God seemed far, far away. Had anyone else, ever, felt so very alone?

She reached down and closed the history book. She also closed her book of lesson plans. Then she picked up all of the books on her desk, one by one, and placed them in a stack, which she pushed to one side.

Again she felt tears well up. What good is a teacher who has no students? Slowly the minutes passed, each feeling like an hour. Every tick of the clock seemed to pile more weight onto her shoulders. Finally, she placed her arms on the desk and rested her head upon her arms.

Then she wept.

She wept for all the years she had struggled to achieve her goal of becoming a teacher. She wept for every class she had taken, every grade she had been given, and every hour of sleep she had lost to do better. She especially wept for her stubbornness in leaving home, for the long tiring trip to Abilene, and for her belief in the importance of education that not a single person here shared.

She felt defeated, abandoned, and broken.

Sometime during the flood of dark emotions, she slowly, but inevitably, fell asleep, as if only sleep could assuage the overwhelming assault of negativity.

Twenty minutes later, she opened her eyes. The classroom was utterly silent and deathly still. She raised her head from the desk and stood up. Slowly, she walked outside to the pump behind the schoolhouse. She jacked the handle until the water flowed. Then she cupped her hands and reached into the stream. She brought the water up and rinsed her face several times.

When she walked back into the schoolhouse, she sat down at the desk and pulled the Bible out of the stack of books. She spoke aloud. “Holy Father, forgive me for my profane thoughts that somehow you had forsaken me. In your Word, you said you would never leave, or forsake, me, but that you would stick closer than a brother. You are here now, as you’ve always been. In Jesus name, thank you, Father, for that.”

She opened the Bible and thumbed through several pages. Then she turned to the first chapter of the Book of St. Luke. So, this was what Parson Blane was writing about. She leaned back in the chair and began to read.

LIII.

Mitchell was livid when he walked out of the marshal’s office. He walked directly to the Alamo Saloon and swung the bat-wing doors open so forcefully that they slapped the wooden frame on either side.

Leo Moretti was wiping the bar with a clean damp cloth. He looked up with a scowl on his face. “Careful there, son, you’ll knock the hinges off the doors.”

“Give me a drink, Leo.”

“It’s way too early to start serving liquor, Deputy.”

“And don’t call me ‘Deputy’ anymore.”

“Why, what happened?”

“I got fired. That’s what happened! Now, are you gonna give me a drink, or do you want me to jump over there and get it myself?”

Moretti reached under the bar and pulled up a bottle of whiskey. He poured the whiskey into a shot glass and slid the glass to Mitchell.

Mitchell stepped forward and took the bottle from Moretti’s hand.

“Cash on the counter, son.”

Mitchell withdrew the coins from his vest pocket and threw them onto the bar. Then he walked to a table near the back of the room. He had downed several shots before he looked up and noticed a man seated at a table in the rear corner. The man was sipping coffee from a cup.

Mitchell narrowed his eyelids. “You’re the coyote who cost me my job!”

Abe Jackson did not look up. “You talking to me, son?”

“Yes, I’m talking to you, you two-bit Texas Ranger!”

Abe Jackson still did not look up. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down.”

“Why? Don’t you want anyone else knowing who you are?” Mitchell said contemptuously.

“That’s right, son.”

“Quit calling me ‘son’!”

Jackson took a sip of coffee.

“Well, you just gonna sit there?”

Jackson did not respond.

“I oughta show you just how fast I am. You caught me by surprise once, but it won’t happen again!”

Jackson turned his head and looked directly into Mitchell’s eyes. “You’re angry. Anger always clouds a man’s judgment. Don’t make a mistake.”

Mitchell poured another shot and downed it in one gulp. Then he slammed the glass onto the table.

Jackson calmly turned back and took another sip of coffee.

LIV.

Marshal Hickok had a rule. Basically, when something troubled him, the rule was to get rid of it. Mitchell had always troubled him. The young deputy was a good worker, no question. But Mitchell had always had the wrong idea about being a lawman.

Hickok had counseled the lad on many occasions and had tried to convince him that the job of a lawman was to uphold the law, which governed the actions of all men equally. Mitchell had always had it backwards. Simply by his attitude, Mitchell showed he believed that, since he wore a deputy’s badge, he, himself, was not bound by the law. Like other lawmen Hickok had known, Mitchell believed he was the law.

Mitchell’s sense of superiority was downright dangerous. Hickok figured that, sooner or later, Mitchell’s failure to grasp the difference between the law and the job to uphold the law would get him into serious trouble. When a man walks around feeling superior, there is always someone who yearns to cut him down to size. And in this untamed land, many men were qualified to do just that.

Mitchell was fast with a gun, no doubt. Hickok had doubts on who was faster, Mitchell or himself. But Hickok was smart enough to avoid a gun battle with someone unknown—unless absolutely necessary. Mitchell, impaired by his pride, had never been that smart. Had Abe Jackson been anyone other than a lawman, Mitchell would already be dead. That thought had scared Hickok back to his senses and had caused him to remember and to enforce his rule. Thus, as hard as it was, Hickok had gotten rid of the troubling Mitchell.

Hickok was mulling over those ideas, as he picked up a broom and began sweeping out the office. Suddenly the door burst open. Moretti, the bartender, yelled, “Mitchell’s been shot!”

TO BE CONTINUED

2009-01-22T06:33:00.001-05:00

2009-01-22T06:14:00.001-05:00

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 11)

2008-11-24T08:48:00.003-05:00

XLII.

The sheriff was tall and broad, seeming to fill the entire entryway of the newspaper office. “Stranger, you’re gonna have to come with me.”

Royce Lee tightened one side of his mouth and blinked slowly in disgust. “Did you talk to Bill Townsend?”

“Who?”

“Bill Townsend. He witnessed the gunfight. I acted strictly in self-defense, Sheriff.”

“All I know is that you killed Jim and Tommy Campbell last night. The Campbells are important people in this town. Now, are you comin’ peaceful-like?”

“Yes Sheriff, I’ll come. But you have to talk to Bill Townsend. He’ll back my story. Those two were looking for trouble. I gave them every chance to walk away.”

“Unstrap that gun belt and hand it over.”

Again Lee tightened his mouth. He hung his head and shook it. “This is terrible bad luck.” He unbuckled the belt and held it out.

The sheriff stepped forward and took it. “Come along.”

“Can you give me a minute to talk to my friend here?”

“Alright. But make it quick.”

Lee turned to Elijah. “Your business here is finished. I want you to head to Little Rock. Cross the river and then make your way north to St. Louis. There, you can get across the Mississippi. The farther north and east you travel, the safer you’ll be.” Lee reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. “Here, take this.”

“Oh, Mr. Lee, you’ve done enough already. I couldn’t possibly take any more.”

“No, you take it. You’ll need it for the journey and to settle down up north. When you find somewhere safe to make your home, learn a trade. Serve as an apprentice until you know everything about the job. Then set up your own business so you won’t have to depend on others to make a living. Good luck, Elijah, and I hope you find your family.” He took hold of Elijah’s wrist, lifting his friend’s hand, and placed the money in his palm. “Go on now, and keep your eyes and ears open on the trail. Understand?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lee, I understand. Thank you for everything. I’ll be praying for you.”

Lee noticed tears in Elijah’s eyes. “Listen now, I’ll be okay, as soon as Bill Townsend tells what he saw.” Lee turned back to the sheriff. “Okay I’m ready.”

XLIII.

No one knows what freedom is until it has been taken away. All of a man’s desires, which he otherwise satisfies to whatever degree, are immediately denied. One cannot eat or drink what he wants, when he wants. One cannot smell the grass, or enjoy the warmth of the sun, or gaze upon the moon and the stars at night. But worst of all, one cannot freely move about, except within a ten foot by ten foot cage.

Lee had been in jail before and had hated every second of it. When he had been released, he promised himself he would never spend another night behind bars. Yet, here he was, after a long sleepless night in the Pine Bluff jail. Even having a witness who had seen that he had acted in self-defense had not kept him from once again being confined like an animal.

Sitting on a cot, elbows on his knees, and hands pressed against the sides of his head, he again realized what all prisoners know: No one owns anything that can be taken away. At best a man can only care for and appreciate what he has, for however long he has it. And next to life itself, the most valuable possession a man has is his freedom.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Lee failed to notice a lanky deputy who had walked into the cell area. Propping himself against the wall, the deputy drank long drafts of coffee from a tin cup, which caused his Adam’s apple to bob up and down like a cork on a fishing line. Finally the deputy stepped forward and raked the cup across the bars.

Startled, Lee looked up.

The deputy leaned close to the bars and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. “Whatcha doin’ in there?”

“What’s it to ya?”

The deputy grinned again. “Nothin’ much really.”

“Make yourself useful and get some coffee for me too.”

“You want some coffee?” The deputy took the tin cup and hurled the remainder of its contents onto the cell floor, splashing it onto Lee’s new boots. “There’s your coffee.”

“Your mother teach ya to do that?”

“Jim Campbell was a friend of mine.”

“Has the sheriff talked to Bill Townsend yet?”

“We don’t know no Bill Townsend.”

“That’s odd, because he was in the saloon when your friend forced me into a fight.”

“You mean when you murdered my friend and his kid brother.”

“Self-defense ain’t murder and you know it. What about other witnesses? There were a lot of people in that saloon.”

“We got plenty of witnesses. They saw everything from the window. They all said that, after you shot Jim, Tommy raised his hands and surrendered. But you killed him anyway.”

“That’s a lie. Besides, those who saw from the window could only see the two in the street. Bill Townsend saw your friend draw first. I had no choice but to kill him. Your friend’s brother raised his hands in the air. But then he went for his gun. That’s when I shot him—after he went for his gun. It was all self-defense. There ain’t no law against that.”

“Yeah well, that’s your story. Let’s see what a jury says.”

“This won’t go to trial, once you find Bill Townsend. He’s the one who saw everything clearly. I made sure I had a witness.”

“Your one witness, against our five, ain’t gonna count for much.”

“How about I tell ya what I really think of ya?”

The deputy laughed and turned to walk through the doorway into the front office. He glanced over his shoulder. “Alright mister. We’ll see how tough you are, dangling from the end of a rope.”

Lee shimmied his feet out of his boots and lay back on the cot. He closed his eyes but could not relax. Every muscle was tight and his mind raced like the wind. Who was Bill Townsend if both the sheriff and the deputy did not know him? Was Townsend some drifter who was in town for only one night? Lee massaged his eyelids. That would be his luck, picking someone as a witness who would never be seen again. He turned his head and spit on the floor.

“You’re gonna clean that up.”

Lee looked up to see the sheriff standing at the bars.

“Come on, get your boots on.”

“Where we goin’?”

The sheriff put the key in the lock and turned it. “I ain’t going nowhere, but if I was you, I’d get out of town and never come back.”

“What do ya mean?”

“I found your Bill Townsend. Turns out he’s the brother-in-law of Joe Safford, the blacksmith. Safford and his wife are honest people. I figure Safford’s brother-in-law, if he’s anything like Safford and his wife, is just as honest. Townsend’s visiting from Memphis for a few days. That’s why nobody here knew him. Besides, there were a couple of others who were across the street and watched everything. They saw the fight the way you said it went down. Those who said something different are hands on Campbell’s ranch. Now get up and get outta here.”

“Where’s my horse?”

“Out front. You owe me a dollar for the livery charge.”

The sheriff turned and Lee followed him into the front office. The sheriff opened a drawer and withdrew Lee’s gun belt, which held the two .45s.

When Lee reached out to take the belt, the sheriff slapped a small towel into his hand instead. “The spit.”

Lee opened his mouth to object but he saw the sheriff raise his eyebrows. “Alright Sheriff, I’ll clean it up.” Lee walked back into the cell and wiped the spit, along with the deputy’s coffee, off the floor. When he walked out of the cell door he cursed under his breath and defiantly kicked one of the bars with the heel of his boot.

When he walked back into the front office, he held out the towel. The sheriff pointed to a wastebasket and Lee tossed it in.

“Got that dollar?”

Lee reached for his wad of bills. His pocket was empty. “Uh, I gave all my money to Elijah.”

The deputy grinned. “It’s either the dollar you owe or a night in jail. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”

Lee desperately checked every pocket he had. He did not have a cent on him.

The sheriff nodded to the deputy. “Yeah, that’s right. Except tomorrow he’ll owe two dollars and he ain’t got that either. No use charging the town to house and feed him till he dies of old age.”

“I got money, Sheriff. Just let me telegraph my bank.”

“Forget it. I’m tired of lookin’ at ya. Here.” The sheriff held out the gun belt and Lee took it, examining it quickly.

“They’re empty,” the sheriff said, reaching into the drawer. “Here’s the cartridges.”

Lee took the cartridges and stuffed them into his pocket.

The deputy eyed Lee’s guns. “Hey, Sheriff. What about one of those new Colts to pay the livery charge?”

“No, we ain’t thieves. Besides, I’m thinkin’ about taking that dollar out of your pay.”

“Why? What did I do?”

Lee glanced at the deputy and chuckled under his breath. Then he turned, strapping on the gun belt as he walked outside. When he mounted up he jerked the horse’s head around and spurred the animal hard. “Let’s go. I never want to see this town again!”

The horse bolted, and Lee rode out of town at full speed.

XLIV.

A quarter mile out of Pine Bluff, Lee pulled in the reins and the horse slowed to an easy lope. After another quarter mile, Lee reined in again and the animal halted. Allowing the horse plenty of time to catch his breath, Lee pulled a .45 from one of his holsters. After he withdrew five of the cartridges he had placed in his pocket, he loaded the first chamber and then skipped one. Then he loaded the remaining four chambers. The empty chamber clicked into position directly beneath the firing pin, ensuring the gun would not accidentally fire if jarred or dropped. When he slipped the gun back into his holster, he strapped the rawhide thong over the hammer. Then he repeated the procedure with the other .45. He shifted in the saddle and warily looked toward the town in the distance. No one was on his trail. He lifted the reins and the horse headed out.

As he rode, Lee occasionally glanced over his shoulder. Before long the town was out of sight. The sun was high in the sky and Lee felt drowsy in the withering heat. Now and then his eyelids drooped before he caught himself and straightened up in the saddle. He had not slept a wink the night before. The deputy had served him eggs that morning, but they smelled bad and did not look like any eggs he had ever seen. He had not eaten a bite.

By mid-afternoon, Lee knew he could travel no farther without a meal and some rest. He turned the horse toward the river and brought the animal to a lope.

When Lee reached the river, the breeze off the water, coupled with the shade of the trees, began to cool his dry sweltering skin. He swung down from the saddle and tied the horse to a low-hanging branch of a tree. Then he walked to the water and splashed his face.

After he collected some wood to build a small fire, Lee stripped the horse of saddle and gear and staked him in a patch of lush green grass.

Lee arranged the wood and lit the fire. Then he added water to some beans he had kept in his knapsack and placed them over the fire. When the beans had cooked, he pulled them from the fire and gobbled them down. He then pulled a .45 from one of his holsters and lay back against the saddle. Placing the gun on his chest, he closed his eyes.

After a few moments he felt his muscles begin to relax and soon he fell asleep. He dreamt he was on a log raft floating on water as smooth as glass. A cool breeze caressed his face and lifted strands of his unruly hair. The sky was violet, and golden rays of the sun filtered through voluminous white and blue clouds. Soon the wind kicked up and skimmed across the water, causing the surface to become choppy. The raft rocked back and forth and Lee heard the rope that held the logs together creak and whine under the strain. The creaking of the rope became loud and ominous as the wind grew fierce, tossing the raft like a toothpick in the rapidly churning water. A giant wave crashed against the tiny vessel, causing it to capsize. Flung from the raft, Lee plunged into the water and began to sink. As he rapidly descended into the deathly dark abyss, his lungs burned from lack of oxygen.

Suddenly he awoke, gasping for air. He felt genuine fear in his gut, and his ears were filled with the creaking sound of the rope in his dream.

He rolled onto his side and the .45 slid off his chest and fell onto the ground. He opened his eyes and lay still for several moments, trying to orient himself. Again and again he inhaled and exhaled large breaths of air. He still heard the creaking of the rope in his head.

After he sat up he rubbed his face and lightly scratched his temples with his fingernails. He looked up, straight ahead, and focused his gaze on the river. The wind had picked up and he heard it rustling through the trees. The sound of the rope, creaking and grinding, annoyingly persisted.

For a moment he thought he heard the creak of the rope across the way, and he began to doubt that the sound was only a lingering impression of his dream. He stood up and holstered the .45.

There it was again. The creaking of the rope!

Lee looked around cautiously. He saw nothing that could cause a sound that resembled a rope creaking and whining under strain. Yet that was precisely what he heard. Or was it still only in his head?

Momentarily he again heard the eerie sound. This time he was able to hone in on its location. It was coming from the vicinity of a large tree nearby. He pulled a .45 from his holster and cocked the hammer. He slowly walked toward the tree, all the while listening intently.

Whatever was making the sound was behind the tree, out of Lee’s line of sight. He crouched slightly and pointed the .45 toward the tree. He stepped stealthily, trying not to disturb the leaves beneath his feet, even though he doubted whether man or beast could hear his movements above the rustling wind.

When he reached the tree, he carefully began to circle it. In small increments he stepped around the trunk ever so cautiously to try to catch sight of whatever it was, before the thing spotted him.

Then he saw it. A colored man was hanging a few feet off the ground, swaying in the breeze. The man’s head was in a noose and his hands were tied behind his back. The rope creaked every time the man swung from side to side. A burlap bag had been placed over the man’s head, which protruded at a fatally odd angle from his torso.

For several moments Lee stood staring at the grisly scene. “Oh, Elijah....”

Lee slowly walked back to his gear and withdrew a sheathed bowie knife from one of his saddlebags. He bridled the horse and swung up onto the animal’s bare back. He then walked the horse over to the hanging man and reached up with his knife and cut the rope. The corpse fell to the ground in a heap.

Lee dismounted and tied off the horse. Then he studied the tracks on the ground. Five men had performed the lynching. He could tell there had been little struggle―as if the men had been tending to familiar business, and the victim had had no choice but to accept his fate.

Lee returned the knife to his saddlebag and removed his folding entrenching tool, which he customarily used for digging shallow fire pits while on the trail. A few feet from the tree he began digging a grave.

Now and then he straightened up and looked carefully in every direction. The men who had hanged his friend were long gone.

The wind rustled through the trees and the branches swayed in rhythmic waves. The sun had completed most of its arc for the day but still hung lazily in the early-evening sky.

After Lee had dug the grave, he stepped out of the rectangular hole and sat down. He wiped the sweat from his brow and swigged some water from his canteen. Something in the back of his mind had been troubling him. Earlier he had attributed the uneasy feeling to his sorrow over the loss of Elijah. But now the feeling returned, causing him to pause. He recalled that he had first noticed the puzzling feeling while reading the tracks.

He glanced at the sun’s angle and decided to read the tracks again before the light faded any more.

He stood and walked to the area where the tracks were most numerous. Then he slowly followed a widening circle, noticing every detail of the imprints left by men and horses. Something was missing. Once again he started from the center of the circle and carefully worked his way out. Then he moved farther out still. He had already identified each man’s boot prints, as well as Elijah’s. But the number of horses did not match up to the number of men.

Lee knew Elijah had left town with a trail horse and a pack horse. The two horses were freshly shod, as was his own. But the tracks did not show that. No matter how many times he examined the ground and made his calculations, he always came up a horse short. Not only that, but he could not distinguish any tracks of a pair of horses that had been freshly shod.

He stood still for several moments, trying to unravel the riddle. Then he glanced at the dead man lying near the tree. Slowly he approached the corpse. He knelt down and pulled the burlap bag from the man’s head. He blinked several times as he realized he did not recognize the man at all. The man was not Elijah!

Lee drew in a deep breath and exhaled a sigh of relief. At the same time, sadness tugged at his heart for the murdered man. He untied the dead man’s hands and dragged the corpse by the arms to the grave. Then he positioned the body into the hole.

An hour later, Lee had filled the grave and had fashioned a cross from a couple of tree branches. After pounding the cross into the ground, he stood silently for several minutes. He felt sure that, had he been a praying man, he would have spoken some appropriate words. But all he could think of was the cruelty of the men who had hanged a person just because of his color.

Finally he turned and walked to his horse. After saddling the animal, his thoughts turned to Oklahoma City. How long had it been since he was on the trail of a man who was traveling toward that town? It seemed like months ago, even though it had actually only been a few days.

He swung up into the saddle and lifted the reins. The horse stepped out in a lively trot. For a moment he thought of Elijah. As slim as the odds were, there was still a chance that his friend might find his family.

Lee again turned his attention to Oklahoma City. He had a long-overdue bounty to collect on Miles Stayton.

XLV.

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts,
Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!

Say firmly:
"We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."….[1]

Sundays in Abilene were always special days for Mrs. Pemberton, a devout churchgoer. The Sabbath provided not only the opportunity to ask forgiveness for her sins committed during the preceding week but also to catch up on all the gossip, which in effect began anew her weekly cycle of transgressions.

Although Abilene had not officially declared a Mother’s Day celebration, as eighteen other American cities in 1873 had, Mrs. Pemberton would not be deterred from her resolve to speak of the horrors of war and the call by informed women to establish peace within and among nations.

The swish, swish, swish of Mrs. Pemberton’s petticoats beneath her best Sunday dress filled the upstairs foyer as she hurried down the hall to Julie’s room. As she knocked on Julie’s door with an insistent rap, she called, “Julie, it’s time to go. We mustn’t be late for your first Sunday at church.”

When Julie Weber opened the door, Mrs. Pemberton looked the girl over from head to toe and then smiled. “Oh, my dear, you strike a pretty picture in that outfit! And wherever did you get those lovely satin and lace shoes? Surely in the East. I’ve seen nothing of such fine fashion in the shops in town.”

“Yes, ma’am, I purchased them last summer in Boston when I was visiting my Aunt Barbara. I won’t tell you how expensive they were. My budget suffered for weeks afterward.”

“Honey, you got every penny’s worth. They’re absolutely lovely. Now, let’s go, or else I’ll miss the chance to introduce you to the ladies before the service begins. This is a very special day, you know: Mother’s Day. We must never forget how horrible wars are and also our womanly responsibilities to urge peaceful resolutions to the problems faced among neighbors, just like it says in the Good Book.”

“Yes ma’am.”

XLVI.

After Julie seated herself next to Mrs. Pemberton in the straight-backed wooden pew, she bowed her head and said a silent prayer. Of all for which she was grateful, she acknowledged that the most precious gift was the salvation granted to her by God’s grace, as well as the peace of mind it imparted.

She raised her head and opened her eyes, allowing her gaze to fall on the magnificent Risen Cross, hung above and behind the altar. The pianist played Bach’s insistently light and happy Minuet in G Major, and she found herself tilting her head back and forth as if the point of her nose were the pendulum on a metronome that kept time to the stiff unyielding rhythm.

How many women had she met this morning already? Mrs. Pemberton must have known every woman in the congregation, and she had been careful to introduce Julie to most of them. Now, as Julie’s gaze slowly took in the seated congregation, she recognized many of the women she had met, but admittedly most of their names had already slipped her memory. She felt embarrassed, as she imagined herself encountering one of the women again and not knowing the woman’s name.

“Do we have any new brothers or sisters attending the service this morning?” the preacher asked.

Mrs. Pemberton immediately stood up. “Reverend, I’m proud to present to the congregation Miss Julie Weber. She’s the new school teacher, and she would like to make an announcement.”

Julie stood up and turned to face the congregation. “Hello, everyone. Thank you for the warm welcome you have shown me this morning.”

As the congregation turned to look at her, Julie noticed one man in particular and her heart skipped a beat. He was the man she had noticed the day she had visited the construction site of the new church building.

When their eyes met Julie fell silent.

The preacher waited a long moment and then smiled. “Come now, Miss Weber, you needn’t be shy. You are among friends here. What is your announcement?”

Julie turned to the preacher but, for another moment, she could not speak.

“What is it, dear?”

Julie cleared her throat. “I’d like to announce that the school will open tomorrow and will run for a month. Then we will break for summer vacation. For those students wishing to attend summer school, the session will begin a week after regular school lets out.”

The congregation remained completely silent, stunned by Julie’s announcement.

The preacher cocked his head, not knowing quite what to say. The congregation members turned to each other and the room erupted into a buzz of muffled conversations.

Julie looked around the room, surprised at all the commotion.

Finally the preacher stepped forward and asked, “Are there any other new brothers or sisters with us this morning?”

As the congregation continued to speak among themselves, Julie quietly sat down.

Mrs. Pemberton turned to Julie. “I’m afraid you caught everyone off guard, my dear. I should have warned you that that might happen. Since the school was already let out by Bonnie Somerset, the parents were expecting the children to help with chores until school starts up again in the fall.”

Julie lowered her head in disappointment.

When the service was over, everyone stood up. The preacher had posted himself at the exit, exchanging pleasantries with the members as they filed out. When Julie came to the preacher, she said, “Thank you, Parson Blane. I’m glad to meet you. Faye Spencer has told me so many good things about you.”

“Pardon me, Miss Weber,” the preacher said smiling, “I’m Reverend Wilcox, the minister of this congregation.”

“Oh?”

Reverend Wilcox glanced up at the man in line behind Julie. “Parson Blane is the man standing behind you.”

Julie turned around and saw the tall man who had caused her heart to flutter. When their eyes met, Blane slightly bowed from the waist. “Hello, Miss Weber.”

TO BE CONTINUED

[1] First two paragraphs of the Mother’s Day Proclamation (not affiliated with the modern Mother’s Day holiday) by Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910), a prominent American abolitionist, social activist, and poet most famous as the author of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Written in 1870, Howe’s Mother’s Day Proclamation was a pacifist reaction to the carnage of the American Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War. The Proclamation was tied to Howe’s feminist belief that women ha(ve) a responsibility to shape their societies at the political level. Reference: Mother’s Day Proclamation, Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 10)

2008-10-22T00:46:00.002-04:00

XXXVII.

Royce Lee remained calm and stood perfectly still. Although the two men in the street facing him were in dim light, he could clearly see the first man’s eyes. Lee had already picked him as the first he would have to kill. The second man, he calculated, was merely a follower and probably much slower on the draw.

Lee had faced down other men in gunfights. The first time, he was terrified—and relieved when he saw the other man fall. The second time, he walked away with much more confidence. He had proven to himself he could hold his own, and that the first time had not been a fluke. After he had killed his third man in a gunfight, he had become familiar enough with the situation to make him more dangerous than most other men alive. He still felt jitters in his stomach. But he had learned to channel the nervous tension into lightning speed and deadly accuracy.

Lee had never sought out a face-to-face showdown. But, like a bad dream, he still found himself in the middle of one from time to time. His style normally hinged on stealth and surprise. In a gunfight, on the other hand, the odds were much too even—and anything could go wrong.

Over time, however, he had come to accept the fact that the occasional nightmarish gunfight was simply a symptom of the kind of man he was.

A warm breeze floated in from the southwest, carrying away the stench of stale liquor that had hung in the air outside of the saloon. The low humidity had dried Lee’s throat more than usual and his tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth. All the while however he kept his attention focused on the first man’s eyes.

Then something poked him in the back. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

A man exiting the saloon had swung the door partially open until it had struck Lee in the back. Keeping his gaze steady on the steely eyes of the man in the street and his right hand ready near his gun, Lee quickly sidestepped to his right. When the man stepped out of the saloon Lee grabbed him by the arm. Without turning his head, Lee asked, “What’s your name?”

“Bill Townsend.”

“Step away, Bill. Watch what’s gonna happen here. You’re my witness.”

Meanwhile a second man who had been exiting the saloon saw Lee facing the two men in the street. He turned back into the room and yelled, “Gunfight!”

The saloon erupted into a roar of sheer panic as men scattered everywhere. Those at the bar dashed toward the center of the room to escape the line of fire. Those in the center and at the rear of the room rushed to the window and drew back the curtains so they could witness the spectacle.

Lee heard the commotion inside the saloon but he did not allow it to distract him. When a solemn hush finally fell upon those in the saloon, he spoke in a calm voice to the men in the street. “If you two are determined to make this the night you die, I’ll oblige you. The best I can do is promise to put a bullet in each of you that will kill you quick. No use you laying in the street suffering.”

“That’s some pretty big talk when there’s two of us and only one of you,” the first man grunted.

“I’ve given you fair warning.”

The second man in the street glanced at the first and whispered, “I don’t like this, Jim. I got a feeling he ain’t bluffin’.”

“Don’t worry, little brother, I can take him.”

“You’re fast, Jim. Everybody knows that. But we don’t know anything about this fella.”

“You’re not turning yellow on me, are you?”

“Aw, Jim. You know me better than that. I’m just telling you I got a bad feelin’ about this guy.”

“He made a fool out of me in the restaurant. I can’t let that go. Now you follow my lead. When I draw, you draw too.”

Lee stood unruffled. He knew the two men were talking between themselves but they spoke in whispers so that he could only distinguish a word now and then. Still, he knew that talk, rather than action, was a sign of doubt. When the men finally stopped whispering, however, he knew the moment of truth had grown closer.

“It’s not too late to walk away from this.” Lee’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“We ain’t walking away, stranger.”

“Well then, whenever you’re ready.”

Lee knew that one of the unwritten laws in a gunfight is to detect precisely when one’s opponent makes his move to draw and shoot. Because the hand is quicker than the eye, Lee never focused on his opponent’s hand. Instead he focused on the man’s eyes and then watched the man’s hand with peripheral vision. Because the delicate muscles around the eye are particularly sensitive to stress, the eyes always had a way of communicating the moment a man went for his gun. A squint, a blink, a quiver—any kind of change―was all Lee needed to detect before he himself drew and fired.

Each man is the sum total of his experiences. He tends to repeat behaviors that reward him, and eliminate behaviors that penalize him. As a result, Lee had created a rule for himself: Never make the first move in a gunfight. Yet, waiting for an enemy to go for his gun could be nerve-racking. To counter negative thoughts Lee had tried in the past to not think at all, but he had found that impossible. What worked instead was to repeat in his mind: “Smooth and easy, smooth and easy, smooth and easy.” Lee had learned that repeating the words kept his mind calm, and when the moment of truth finally came, a calm mind was his most effective weapon.

Not only did Lee never make the first move in a gunfight, but he waited long enough not to give the appearance he had made the first move. He always wanted onlookers convinced of the truth that he had acted in self-defense. Why? Not because he fancied himself some kind of hero. Not because he held some noble notion to give his enemy a slight advantage. And certainly not because he wanted to be fair. Rather, for purely selfish reasons, he wanted onlookers to testify to local authorities that he had acted strictly in self-defense.

For Lee, killing a resistant outlaw on the trail with no witnesses was a straight-forward perfunctory task. But in a town with many onlookers, killing a man who was probably liked by some of the citizens, and loved by his family, was a sure path to trouble with the law.

But now he was trapped. The two men in the street were not going to let him walk away. In the back of his mind he loathed the idea of wasted time tangled up with the law. Additionally there was the matter of Miles Stayton. Even now, as Lee stood outside of a saloon in a town where he had only wanted to buy a pair of boots and a hat, eat a steak, and purchase a horse, Miles Stayton was getting away. And Lee had a big score to settle with Miles Stayton.

“Smooth and easy, smooth and easy, smooth and easy.”

Then the very slightest blink! But Lee saw it in slow motion as if a giant rain cloud had momentarily eclipsed the bright rays of the sun. Simultaneously the man’s hand flashed to his gun. The man’s pistol had cleared leather and was almost level when Lee’s bullet struck him hard in the chest. The impact lifted the man’s feet off the ground and violently thrust him backwards until he landed flat in the dust with a sickening thud.

Instantly Lee trained the pistol on the second man in the street. He fanned the hammer with the meaty part of his left palm. At that moment, two events happened at the same time. First, the gun did not fire. Second, he saw the man lifting his hands in the air.

“Don’t shoot!” the man cried in a shaky voice.

Lee straightened and pulled in his chin. His gun had misfired. The river water must have penetrated the cartridge. He wondered whether the next bullet would fire or not. He also wondered if the man in the street had realized the gun had misfired.

“Keep your right hand in the air. With your left hand reach down, unbuckle your gun belt, and let it fall.” As Lee gave the command he pulled the hammer all the way back into the firing position and held his aim steady on the man.

“Okay mister. Only don’t shoot!”

Lee watched the man carefully. The man’s words and tone of voice indicated he would comply. But would he?

The man slowly lowered his left arm until his hand was near the buckle.

“Don’t do anything foolish.”

“What’s the matter, mister? Your gun won’t fire?”

“I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Now unbuckle the belt.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

The man’s right hand dropped quickly to his gun and he drew it out of the holster.

With only a split second to react Lee squeezed the trigger. Again the gun did not fire. He quickly fanned the hammer. Nothing. Desperately and with lightning speed Lee fanned the hammer again.

The bullet fired and hit its mark just in time. As the man in the street doubled over, he pulled the trigger on his gun and the bullet penetrated the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Then the man collapsed to the ground.

XXXVIII.

When Lee heard a gentle knock, he stepped to the door and opened it.

Elijah stepped back when he saw the gun in Lee’s hand. “You ready, Mr. Lee?”

Lee holstered the pistol. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Lee and Elijah walked down the stairs. When they reached the lobby the man who had rented them the rooms stood up behind the counter. He pointed at the clock on the wall. “You were supposed to be out first thing this morning. It’s nearly nine o’clock!”

Neither Lee nor Elijah responded. Without missing a step they walked through the lobby and out the front door.

When Lee saw the three horses that Vince Hackett had tied to the hitching rail he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Whoa,” he muttered. “Looks like we did get a steal.”

Lee did not have to guess which horse was his. His was the sorrel. The mettle in the beast’s eyes and the way the horse watched him, combined with the lean muscular body, told Lee this indeed was a fine animal. He confidently approached and gently said, “Easy, big fella.” He placed a firm hand on the horse’s neck and patted him several times. He walked around the horse and stopped in front of him. Then he parted the animal’s lips and checked the teeth. He figured the horse was about four or five years old.

“Where’s Moses?”

“Elijah, I need to talk to you.”

“Alright, Mr. Lee. But what did you do with Moses and what are these two extra horses for?”

“Elijah, I don’t know how to say this right. But Moses is going to be taken good care of for as long as he lives―which we both know won’t be for too much longer. From now on, you got yourself a darn fine trail horse and also a pack animal to carry the supplies we’re gonna buy this morning.”

“But I loved Moses. He and I were best friends.”

Lee watched tears come to Elijah’s eyes. “Darn it man, let me give you a good dose of reality. First of all, I don’t know how you’ve lasted this long without being lynched. They got whole organizations of racist white folks who would love to catch you alone on the trail, just so they can hang you. Besides, you’re going about trying to find your family all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean wandering around in the South is gonna get you killed. You’ve seen how these people treat you. There’s a way to find your family, but it’s not the way you’ve been going at it. Now I suggest we get you some supplies for the trail and that you head north in a hurry and stay up there. Before we leave town I’m gonna show you precisely how to find your family. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lee. I want that more than anything.”

“Okay then. You’re gonna have to trust I know what I’m talking about. Vince Hackett, who sold us these horses, took Moses. I paid him to do it and Hackett will take good care of your old friend. That should put your mind at ease. Now mount up. Let’s find us a gun shop and a general store.”

After Elijah swung up into the saddle, he glanced at Lee. “But Mr. Lee, don’t you think you should have asked me before you took Moses?”

“Would’ve you let me take him?”

Elijah shook his head. “No!”

“Now you know why I didn’t ask.”

XXXIX.

The gunsmith inhaled a short draw of cigarette smoke and blew it out his nose. “Yes sir. We got the new Peacemaker.”

“I’ll take one.” Lee withdrew the pistol from his holster and set it on the counter. “Will you take a few dollars off if I give you this as a trade-in?”

The gunsmith glanced at Lee’s gun. “I’ve got no use for that.”

“Neither do I. It’s been soaked in the river along with the cartridges. Take it and do whatever you want with it. A good oiling should fix it up but I could never trust it again. You also need to reload all the cartridges with fresh powder.”

The gunsmith withdrew a new Colt .45 Peacemaker from a glass case and set it on the counter. “Now this is a fine weapon.”

“That is nice. I’ll take two of ‘em.”

“You want two?”

“You’re right. Make it three.”

“Three? But they’re fifteen dollars a piece! And three’s all I got in stock.”

“Now you’ll be able to order more. And I’ll take three, no five, boxes of cartridges.”

“What are you planning to do, mister? Start a war?”

“The war’s already started. And I lost the first battle. I don’t plan on losing any more. Reach up there and hand me that belt with the two holsters.”

Lee unbuckled his own gun belt and set it on the counter. He pulled the cartridges out of the loops and replaced them with the .45 caliber cartridges from one of the boxes the gunsmith had set on the counter. When the gunsmith placed the new holster on the counter, Lee filled all of those loops as well. Then he loaded all three Colts with five cartridges each, being careful to leave an empty chamber beneath the firing pin. He withdrew the few remaining cartridges in the box and stuffed them into his pocket. “Better give me two more boxes.”

“I’ve only got one more box of .45s, mister. You’re cleaning me out!”

“Alright, give me one more box.” Lee pointed to the rifle rack. “I’ll take two of those. They’re the new Winchester ‘73s, aren’t they?”

“Yes sir, they sure are.”

“Good. Give me a couple of scabbards for them too. Also I need a scatter gun. Twelve gauge with short double barrels. And ammo for it and the Winchesters. Give me two cleaning kits for the pistols and two for the rifles.”

After the gunsmith set the rifles and shotgun on the counter, Lee immediately loaded them to full capacity.

When the gunsmith totaled the amount Lee pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and paid the man. Then he strapped on the gun belt and slid a .45 into each holster. When he picked up his old gun belt he slid the third .45 into the holster. After he picked up the rifles, the shotgun, the boxes of cartridges, and the cleaning kits, he turned to walk out.

The gunsmith hurried around the counter and scurried to open the door for Lee whose arms were full. “Thank you mister. I’d say you’re loaded for bear.”

“Not for bear. Something much more dangerous.”

Lee walked out onto the sidewalk and stepped down into the street. He strapped one scabbard holding a Winchester onto his saddle and placed two of the cleaning kits along with several boxes of ammunition into a saddlebag. Then he strapped the other rifle scabbard onto Elijah’s saddle. He took a piece of rope and tied the shotgun to Elijah’s saddle horn. Then he placed the other cleaning kits and the remaining boxes of cartridges into one of Elijah’s saddlebags.

Elijah, sitting in the saddle, watched with incredulity as Lee methodically tended to business.

Finally Lee held the single-holster gun belt up to Elijah. “Here. Put this on.”

“Oh Mr. Lee, I don’t wear a gun.”

“Start.”

“But I don’t rightly know how to shoot.”

“Learn and learn quick. I gave you plenty of bullets for practice. Practice Elijah. Practice as if your life depended on it. Odds are it does.”

XL.

It was almost noon when Lee and Elijah finished strapping the array of supplies that Lee had purchased from the general store onto the pack horse.

“Mr. Lee, I’m startin’ to feel real guilty. You’ve spent a whole lot of money on me, starting with that steak dinner. And I’ve never spent a night in a hotel, much less in one that has a bed I’d like to sleep a week in. These horses must have cost a fortune and you also paid Mr. Hackett to look after Moses for the rest of his days. Why even that cook in the restaurant said Mr. Hackett has the nicest spread around. The guns—well, you believe they’re necessary. And when I think about it seriously, the Lord holds no grudge against a man defending himself. But these supplies. It’s just getting to be too much. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate everything somethin’ fierce. But there’s no way I can begin to repay you. Mercy me, I doubt I could repay you if I turned over every nickel I made from now until the Lord takes me home.”

“Quit talking foolish, Elijah. I got more money than I know what to do with, and I got nothing better to spend it on. The money I used last night and today will barely make a dent.” Lee paused a moment and then smiled. “Since you’re in so good with the Lord, maybe He’ll count what I’ve done as a good deed.”

“Are you a Christian, Mr. Lee?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I’m sorry to tell you this, but the Lord can’t count anything you do as a good deed. It doesn’t matter how good it looks in the eyes of men.”

“What do you mean? People do good things all the time. When you pulled me out of the river, that was a good deed, wasn’t it?”

“Yes sir. The Lord will surely count that in my favor.”

“Well then what’s the difference?”

“Can I talk plain, Mr. Lee?”

“Of course. Talk straight, Elijah.”

“The Lord only counts deeds as good when they’re done for the right reason—and there’s only one right reason. That’s to glorify the Lord.”

“What do you mean ‘glorify’?”

“It means doing things that honor the Lord. When you sin, you dishonor the Lord. So you don’t sin, as much as humanly possible anyway. Instead you obey His Word.

“You do things to help your neighbor. After all, God created your neighbor, even your enemies, just like He created you. If your neighbor asks, you share about what Jesus has done for you. Whenever you serve others, you serve the Lord.

“Spending time with the Lord in thankful prayer is another way to honor Him. You also glorify the Lord when you give Him proper credit for the good things He provides. When you take personal credit for your gifts, you rob the Lord of what is rightfully His and you’re forgetting He gave them to you in the first place.”

“But the Lord has nothing to do with what I’ve done.”

“That’s right, Mr. Lee, and it’s a shame. When a person doesn’t believe, he does things mostly to please himself. A man can help another man and that’s a good thing as far as men understand. But the Lord knows when you’re doing something for yourself and when you’re doing something for Him. What you do is only a good deed when you do it for the Lord. That kinda leaves you out if you’re not one of His children.”

“Well, I don’t believe in that stuff anyway. It makes no difference to me if the Lord counts it good or bad.”

“I’m right sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Lee, because you’re missing the most important part.”

“What’s that?”

“When it’s time to die you’ll be glad you’re a believer sure enough. But believing and obeying the Lord is also the absolute best way to live.”

“Yeah well, all this talk is wasting time. I want to get out of this town pronto. Come on, let’s go.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“I’m expecting the sheriff to pay me a visit. And that can only mean trouble. But we got one more stop to make.”

“Okay, Mr. Lee, but please think about what I said. Ask yourself if you’re happy with the life you’re living. When you admit you’re not, I hope you’ll get down on your knees and ask the Lord to save you. Then you’ll know what true life is.”

“Yeah, well, maybe some day. For now, let’s get going.”

The men mounted up and rode along the street until they came to a sign that read Pine Bluff Weekly Herald.

“What’s this?” Elijah asked.

“It’s the best way to find your family.”

“You mean, read the newspaper?”

“Let’s go in. I’ll show you what I mean.”

XLI.

When Lee and Elijah entered the newspaper office, a man leaning over a printing press glanced up. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Lee noticed an awkward curl to the man’s mouth when his gaze shifted to Elijah. Lee fully expected the man to say Elijah was not allowed in the office. Before the man could speak however Lee said, “We want to place an advertisement.”

The man straightened up and walked to the desk in the front of the room. He sat down and withdrew a piece of paper from a drawer. Then he picked up a pencil and held it over the paper. “Okay, what do you want the ad to say?”

Lee stepped forward. “Say: Two hundred dollar reward for information leading to the whereabouts of—” Lee looked at Elijah. “What’s their names?”

“Minervy and Nelly and Lucy Ward.”

Lee pointed to the paper. “Write that.”

The man looked up. “Okay. Who’s gonna hold the reward money?”

“Can you hold it?”

“Yes, I suppose I could. I’ll say in the ad that whoever has the information should contact this office. Where are you staying so I can contact you?”

“Elijah here will have to telegraph you now and then. He doesn’t stay in any one place. Now I want that advertisement in your paper and in other newspapers.”

“What other newspapers?”

“All across the country.”

“All across the country? How about we put the ad in some of the major newspapers. Like New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Atlanta, and a few others.”

“Okay. How much is that?”

“How long do want the ad to run?”

“I don’t know. How long will something like that take?”

“Let’s start with a month.”

“Look,” Lee said, “let’s do it this way. I’ll give you, say, two hundred dollars plus the two hundred dollar reward. You run the ad in as many newspapers as you think are likely to get a result for as long as the money holds out. Can I trust you to do that?”

“Oh yes. I run a legitimate paper. Couldn’t stay in business long if I ever cheated a customer.”

“Alright, good.”

Lee pulled out the bills and counted out four hundred dollars. “Okay. Is that it?”

“Yes sir, I’ll take care of it for you. Just telegraph the Herald now and then with where you’re at, and I’ll keep you informed. I’ll have to spend some of the money to telegraph you back.”

“That’ll be fine.” Lee glanced at Elijah. “Come on, let’s go.”

Just then the door opened. When Lee turned, the sheriff was standing in the doorway.

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 9)

2008-10-22T00:26:00.003-04:00

XXXI.

As Royce Lee sank deeper in the water his consciousness sank deeper as well. He was barely aware of his surroundings and his body was quickly becoming numb.

Then something hit him in the forehead with just enough force to startle him into a fully alert but confused awareness. After a moment he realized his own knee had struck him in the head. His feet had landed on the bottom of the river and as his downward momentum forced him into a crouching position his head had struck his knee.

With all his might he pushed off the bottom with his legs and stroked with his arms. After only a moment his head popped above the water. He realized the current had swept him downriver to a point where the water was much shallower. The river itself had given him new life.

He stroked with tired arms and kicked with weary legs until exhaustion quickly overtook him. He struggled to stay afloat but to no avail. This time however his feet hit bottom before his head went under. With faltering steps he began to walk toward the riverbank. The current lifted his feet off the bottom and set him down a short distance away. The repositioning happened twice more as he was simply too tired to resist drifting with the current.

Dizzy and exhausted, he still had the presence of mind to scan the riverbank for the rider he had seen earlier. If he were caught now so close to the bank the gunman would surely kill him.

With the last of his strength he headed for a tree along the bank. The tree had pushed a large root through the ground into the water. The root was under an eroded portion of the bank that formed a muddy ledge.

When he reached the root beneath the ledge, the water was still chest high. He grabbed the root and tried to recover enough strength to climb onto the bank.

Hanging on against the current however was quickly draining his energy. A bit longer and the current would sweep him away. With tremendous effort he lifted a leg over the main root and raised himself enough to roll into a tangle of smaller roots. Then he collapsed unconscious.

Many hours passed until a cold hand awakened him. The first rays of the morning sun reflected off the water and he could see his arm had fallen through the roots. His hand below the water felt like it was freezing. As his body began to come alive he felt the aches and the stiffness. When he lifted his hand from the water he heard a distinctive crack of a portion of his bed of roots. He

instantly lay still, fearing the roots would let go and dump him into the river.

Then he heard a different sound. A scrape. Then another. He tried to place the sound. He slowly realized it was the sound of a metal fork scraping across a metal pan. Someone was above him! The person above him was eating food off of a metal pan. Again he listened. Now he could hear the crackle of a campfire.

He looked up and out trying to determine whether he was visible from the bank. He decided he could not be seen. Then he heard the roots crack again and they suddenly dropped him about a foot closer to the water. If the roots were to let go and he fell, the splash would alert the man above him. And he entertained no doubt that the man above him was the man determined to kill him.

XXXII.

Elijah Ward had been a free man for almost ten years. Countless ugly scars on his back from the bite of a whip were only a small testimony to the many years he had suffered as a slave in the South.

The last he had heard, his wife and daughters had been sold to a plantation owner in South Carolina. When he had arrived shortly after the war however he found many cities in ruins and no sign of his family.

During his travels he sustained himself by taking odd jobs. Between jobs he was forced to beg for food. He traveled from one town to another searching for his wife and daughters. He hoped at least to hear some word about where they might be.

Over the years he had crisscrossed much of the country numerous times but not once had he obtained information regarding the whereabouts of his family.

While working a job in Illinois for a farmer named Ben Stockard, Elijah’s luck seemed to change―at least for a time.

Stockard was an elderly widower. His wife had died of typhoid fever several years before, and Stockard was extremely lonely. In the evenings when Elijah came in from the fields Stockard would invite Elijah into his home to sit and talk. Over time Stockard began to gain comfort from Elijah’s homespun wisdom and his stories from the Bible.

One evening Elijah confessed to Stockard that the stories he knew from the Bible were stories he had been told as a youngster but that he had never been taught to read. He confided that, outside of finding his family, his greatest desire was to learn to read the Bible stories for himself.

Grateful for Elijah’s company in the evenings Stockard began to teach Elijah to read. Because of Elijah’s great desire to understand the written words of the Bible he was a fast learner. During the day while working in the fields he would mentally review and rehearse what Stockard had taught him the previous night.

The process however was laborious for both men because not only did Elijah have to decipher sentences and paragraphs but he had to learn the definition of many words. But inevitably the letters on the pages began to speak to him. For the first time in his life Elijah began to read the stories of the Bible. And everyday in the fields he praised and thanked God for the ability to learn of Man’s Redeemer from His Word.

As the weeks passed Stockard’s depression began to dissipate. Teaching Elijah to read occupied his mind and he himself began to take interest in the promise of peace and comfort offered through salvation.

On a cold winter night the two men knelt by the fire and prayed to God. Elijah led Stockard in the prayer of salvation and Stockard took it to heart.

In less than a year however Stockard died. Elijah and Stockard’s only son who had traveled from Ohio were at the old man’s side when the Lord took him. Before Stockard died he thanked Elijah for the company and the comfort he had provided. Knowing Elijah’s desire to find his family and also that the farm would be sold after his death Stockard gave Elijah one hundred dollars and a mule. The rest of Stockard’s money and the property would pay off debts and then serve as the inheritance for his son.

The morning after Stockard died Elijah headed out on the mule that he renamed Moses. In his pocket he had more money than he had ever seen before. He decided to search across the country on a line traveling west then east then west again. Each time he crossed he would work his way progressively south. If he had not found his family before he had reached the southern tip of the United States he would start over in Illinois progressively working his way north.

One evening in May he stopped and made camp beside a river. Before he crawled into his bedroll he spent an hour reading the book of St. John. It was his tenth time reading

through the Bible from cover to cover. He had traveled many miles and the one hundred dollars had run out long ago. Again he had resorted to working odd jobs.

The next morning he rekindled the campfire and placed the last of his beans over the flames. The sky was spotted with high cumuli that blocked the sun in patches. Slender groups of rays beamed down through the holes in the clouds like spokes of a giant wagon wheel. He finished the beans and tossed the pan onto the ground, planning to rinse it in the water before he packed his gear.

“Thank you Lord for such a beautiful morning. You sure do know how to put on a show. Now Lord if you could see your way clear to provide a job on the next farm for your humble servant, I sure would appreciate it. And kinda watch out for me, Lord. The people here in the South don’t take so kindly to colored folk. Please bless my Minervy and little Lucy and little Nelly―except I guess they’re not so little anymore. You know my heart even before I ask but you know I gotta say it too. You’d make me the happiest man in the world if you’d show me where my family is. But I’m always grateful for your love anyhow. You have a nice day, dear Lord, and I’ll talk to you this evening―unless of course something comes up in the meantime.”

Just then he heard a loud plunk, splash!

He stood up thinking a giant fish had jumped out of the water and had splashed down again. He walked to the riverbank in case the fish jumped again. But below him hanging onto a root against the current was a man!

“Mercy me, Mister! What are you doing down there? Here, grab my hand!”

XXXIII.

When Royce Lee awoke he found himself completely naked in a bedroll. He looked over and saw a man sitting beside a fire reading the Bible. A coffee pot sat on the fire. “Who are you?”

“Elijah Ward. Who might you be?”

“My name is Royce Lee. Are you alone?”

“All except for the Lord.”

“You seen anybody else around here?”

“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of anybody since I left the last farm, Mr. Lee.”

“Where’s my clothes?”

Elijah pointed.

Lee turned his head and saw his clothes hanging on a line strung between two trees.

“I’ll get ‘em for you. They been dry for some time. When you came out of the water you collapsed. Been asleep most of the day.” He stood up and walked to the clothes line. “How’d you fall in anyway?”

“It’s a long story. Got any grub? I’m starving!”

“You asked for the one thing I’m out of. Got some coffee though.”

Elijah bent down and handed Lee his clothes.

“You’re out here without any food?”

“Ate the last of the beans this morning. Sorry.”

“Well, Pine Bluff’s not too far south of here. We best get started.”

“Okay, if you’re feeling up to it. I’ll pack my gear.”

Lee put on his clothes. From his vest pocket he withdrew a thick wad of bills. They were dry but wrinkled. He figured they would spend just the same. He looked curiously at Elijah. The man had not disturbed the money at all.

Elijah kicked dirt onto the fire until he was sure it was out. “Okay, Mr. Lee. I’m ready to go.” Elijah pointed to the mule. “We can ride double on Moses but we’ll have to take it easy. He ain’t as spry as he used to be.”

“That’ll be fine.”

XXXIV.

“What do you do, Mr. Lee?”

The mule had been ambling along the trail to Pine Bluff for about fifteen minutes. Already Lee was becoming frustrated with the snail’s pace. “I ain’t one for talking much. Can’t we go any faster? I’d like to get there before the first snow.”

“Moses—”

“Ain’t as spry as he used to be. I know.”

“If you ain’t one for talking much, will it get on your nerves if I talk?”

“It could.”

Lee pulled the six-shooter from his holster. He examined it and then spun the cylinder. He raised his arm and took aim at a lizard on a rock about twenty-five yards away.

When Elijah heard the distinctive double-click of the hammer he raised his eyebrows. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, are you Mr. Lee?”

“Of course not. You saved my life.”

Elijah turned his head and saw where Lee was pointing the weapon. “I wouldn’t—”

When the hammer fell the lizard exploded into vapor. Simultaneously, the mule jerked his head up and half-reared. “Whoa boy! Whoa!” Elijah pulled in the reins, trying to control the frightened animal. Lee grabbed onto Elijah to avoid falling off.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Lee. Moses ain’t used to gunfire.”

“So I noticed.”

After the mule had settled down he fell into a steady stride but now with more life in his steps.

“Well, I never thought I’d say this but now we’re getting somewhere.”

Elijah turned his head and saw Lee’s smile.

Lee withdrew a bullet from one of the many loops in his gun belt and replaced the spent cartridge. Then he holstered the weapon. “She fires but she’s gonna need a good oiling.”

“You feel better now, Mr. Lee?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You make your living with a gun?”

“Yes, I do.”

Elijah fell silent. He perceived no threat but he realized he was riding double with a dangerous man.

“Thank you Elijah for pulling me out of the drink.”

Elijah turned his head and eyed Lee. “You do feel better.”

“What are you doing out here with a small amount of gear and no food—and you probably ain’t got a nickel to your name.”

“The Lord provides, Mr. Lee.”

“Well, I don’t know about the Lord. But when we get to Pine Bluff—if we ever do―I’m gonna provide you with a big juicy steak.”

“Mercy me, Mr. Lee. A steak!”

“The first thing I’m gonna do though is buy me a pair of boots and a hat.”

The two men traveled along. Over the course of the ride Elijah told Lee all about his experiences since he had become a free man and how he was searching for his family.

With absolutely nothing else to do Lee listened, in-between bouts of frustration with their excruciatingly slow progress toward Pine Bluff. At this pace, he thought, Elijah would be in heaven long before he ever found his wife and daughters.

By the time they reached Pine Bluff the sun had dipped below the horizon and only pink reflected rays lit the sky. Lee had never been so glad to ride into a town.

Before long Lee nudged Elijah. “Stop. Wait for me here.”

Lee slid off the mule and hurried into a shop along the street. When he came out Elijah noticed Lee was wearing a new pair of boots and a Stetson. Lee grabbed Elijah’s hand and swung up onto the mule. “Okay, let’s go.”

They had gone another block when Lee nudged Elijah again. “This place looks good.”

Elijah turned and saw Lee pointing to a restaurant. “Alright.”

When the two men entered the restaurant, heads turned. The waitress came directly over to the table and looked at Elijah. “You’re not allowed in here.”

Elijah immediately began to stand up.

“Sit down,” Lee said firmly.

Elijah began to sit down when the waitress raised her arm and pointed to the door. “Out!”

Elijah began to stand up again. Lee turned and gave Elijah a stern look. Elijah sat down again.

The waitress turned hurriedly and walked through the swinging door to the kitchen. Almost immediately a man wearing a white shirt, white pants, and an apron came out of the kitchen and walked to the table. He glared at Elijah. “The waitress already told you to leave. Now I’m telling you. Get out.”

When Elijah began to stand up Lee glanced at him. “Quit doing that!” He turned to the man. “We’ll take two of your best steaks with all the fixin’s.”

The man was unmoved. “We don’t serve his kind in here.”

Lee slowly lowered his arm and placed his hand on the butt of his pistol. “You’re gonna serve him.”

The man hesitated, eyeing the weapon. He glanced up at Lee who held the man’s gaze. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”

“Why not? I figure with you out of the way, I could get back there and cook the steak myself. That way I’d be eating it instead of out here talking about it.”

The man hesitated. Finally he said, “Alright Mister. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I want those steaks tender and juicy. And I just might switch plates with my friend here, so they both better be good. And make it snappy. I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“Alright sir. Coming right up.”

Lee glanced at the other customers who had been watching the scene. Except for a couple of men sitting at a table near the window, everyone averted their eyes. The two men turned to each other. One said something under his breath and the other one snickered. Finally they stood up. As they did Lee lowered his hand below the table.

When the two men reached the table, one said to Lee, “Around here we got a name for a fella like you.”

“I’d keep that name to myself. I ain’t looking for trouble but if you want some you came to the right place.” Under the table he pulled back the pistol’s hammer and the men heard the clicks. “You’re gonna spoil a lot of people’s dinner when you’re laying on the floor bleedin’. Now I’ll count to ten in my head. I suggest you leave before I finish counting. And I’m already on five.”

“Come on, Jim. Let’s get out of here. They ain’t worth it.”

The two men turned and hurried out.

The man in the apron had been standing, holding the plates. After the two men hurried out he approached and set the plates on the table. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

“I need some information. Who sells the best horses in these parts and where can I find him?”

“That would be Vince Hackett. You can probably find him at the saloon across the street. He’s normally in there this time of night.”

“Is he an honest man?”

“Sir, he built the nicest spread around by standing on his word. You won’t find a man more honest. He’s a business man though. I’d remember that. But he’s fair-minded.”

Lee nodded. He reached over and switched plates with Elijah and looked up at the man in the apron.

“Don’t worry, sir. They’re the two best steaks I had.”

“Okay. Go on and let us eat in peace.”

Halfway through the meal, Elijah looked up. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Lee?”

“If you must.”

When that man in the apron came out unarmed, you wouldn’t have really shot him, would’ve you?”

Lee glanced at Elijah. “No.”

Elijah nodded. He cut another bite-sized piece of meat and lifted it to his mouth.

“Probably not.”

Elijah jerked his head around and looked at Lee.

Lee stared ahead blankly, chewing his steak.

XXXV.

When the two men walked out of the restaurant, Elijah said, “Thank you, Mr. Lee. I haven’t had such a good meal since―well I guess that was the best meal I ever had.”

“Don’t mention it. You grab Moses and tie him up down there. Then meet me inside.” He raised his arm and pointed to a hotel sign halfway down the block.

When Lee entered the hotel, a man behind the counter stood up. “Yes sir, need a room?”

“Give me two for one night.”

The man craned his neck, looking around Lee. “Got somebody with you?”

“He’ll be along in a minute.”

“Okay, that’ll be five dollars.”

“Five! That’s a bit steep, ain’t it?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll give you four and not a cent more.”

“Alright Mister. Two rooms, four dollars.”

“And they better be nice rooms.”

“They’re nice and the beds are comfortable.”

As he said it, Elijah opened the door.

When the man heard the door open he craned his neck again, “You’re not allowed in here.”

Lee placed his hand on the counter. “He’s the other room.”

“Oh now wait just a minute.”

“How much?”

“You don’t understand. I could get in a lot of trouble lettin’ somebody like that stay here.”

“Mister, you don’t know what trouble is. But I’d take great pleasure in learning you. Now how much more?”

“Well, seein’ as I got no choice—”

“You don’t.”

“Make it ten extra.”

“Let’s make it twelve total. Two for me, ten for my friend.”

“But—”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Alright, twelve. But you both gotta be out first thing in the morning. I don’t want nobody seeing. Understand?”

Lee turned to Elijah. “Take your key and get settled in. I’ll be back.”

“Where you goin’?”

“To see a man about a horse.”

A few minutes later Lee had walked down the street. When he pushed open the bat-wing doors of the saloon, the room was smoky, crowded, and loud, all particularities Lee disdained.

He approached the bar and told the bartender he was looking for Vince Hackett. The bartender pointed to a table near the back of the room. Lee made his way through the crowd to the table. “Which of you is Vince Hackett?”

“I’m Hackett.” The man sat back in his chair and lifted his hand to his chin. He quickly looked Lee up and down.

“I’m interested in a horse.”

“You want to buy a horse?”

“Three, actually. Two good trail horses and a pack horse.”

“Sit down, stranger.”

A man sitting beside Hackett stood up and moved to an empty chair around the table. Lee sat down.

“So you want to buy three horses. I can accommodate you. But it won’t be cheap.”

“How much?”

“I only breed the very best, you understand. Animals like that are worth a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“Four fifty.”

“Two seventy-five.”

Hackett laughed. “I’m sorry, Mister. You came to the wrong fella. I’m talking about the very best animals in these parts. You’re interested in crowbaits.”

“The first one has to have spirit, speed, and stamina. I figure that’s worth one twenty-five tops. The second must be even-tempered and able to spend long hours on the trail. That’s worth seventy-five. The pack horse, well, he’s worth maybe fifty if he’s strong. That’s two fifty. But I’ll throw in an extra twenty-five.”

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. I might could come down to four hundred, but you’d be getting a steal.”

“None of ‘em can be gun-shy. That’s worth an extra fifty. I’ll make it three twenty-five.”

“No, it’s four hundred or nothing.”

“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay what you’re asking. But for that you have to take an old mule and put him out to pasture. Make sure he’s got shelter in the winter and that he stays well-fed. Then you got your four hundred.”

“Take an old mule? For how long?”

“For the rest of his natural life.”

“Mister, who are you? Why you’re loco! Something like that could cost me a bundle. Besides I don’t want a mule roaming around on my ranch.”

“How much to take the mule?”

Again Hackett raised his hand to his chin. “How old is the mule?”

“He’s old. You won’t have to care for him long but you have to guarantee he’ll be comfortable for however long he lasts.”

“I wouldn’t consider anything like that for less than a thousand.”

“Throw in the tack and we’ll make it twelve hundred for everything.”

Hackett laughed again. Then he shook his head. He glanced around at his friends at the table. “I think I’m gonna need another beer. How about you gentlemen? Stranger, you want to have a drink with us?”

“No thanks. What about the twelve hundred?”

“Tell you what. Make it thirteen hundred cash on the barrel head and you got yourself a deal.”

Pulling out the wad of bills, Lee glanced at Hackett. “Done. Have the three horses out front of the hotel up the street by first light. When you bring the horses, take the mule. If there’s a problem with any of the horses, I’ll be paying you a visit.”

“There will be no problem.”

XXXVI.

When Lee walked out of the saloon, the two men he had confronted earlier in the restaurant were waiting for him. One look, and Lee knew evil was on their minds and that they were deadly serious.

He stood just outside the doorway, aware that the light from the saloon outlined his figure. The two men, on the other hand, were standing in the street where it was much darker.

Immediately he reached down and unstrapped the thong from the hammer of his pistol. Then he allowed his arms to hang at his sides.

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 8)

2008-07-28T11:05:00.002-04:00

XXVIII.

Royce Lee was not a bounty hunter for the money. He did it because he thrived on the danger of hunting the most cunning animal of all: his own kind.

Though Lee was not yet middle-aged, his body ached from continual rigorous travel. The thick brown hair of his youth had thinned out considerably and he regularly found loose brittle strands when he took off his hat at night. Years earlier gray hairs had begun to show at his temples and now the gray hair covered most of the sides of his head. His skin regularly exposed to the sun was leathery in texture and extremely dark brown.

His face, more than anything else, showed the years of living on the edge, the countless miles traveled, and a dim reflection of each man he had killed. His eyes were gray and gloomy, his cheeks hollow. His mouth was normally dry and it hung open, as if perpetually prepared to vomit the poison of the evil he pursued and of the evil he himself had become. The most distinctive feature of his face was the long deep scar that reached from the back of his right jaw to the center of his chin. The Indian who had branded him for life had not been as lucky.

Lee knew, and cared for, nothing about women. He had never owned a home. He had never worked a regular job. Neither did he know nor care about how even simple things worked. He could not have herded a single cow. He could not have hitched a team of horses or repaired a fence on a ranch. He was a man completely out of touch with the world around him. Out of touch except in one respect: He was a master at knowing how a man thought.

How a man thought made him predictable. And a man’s predictability was his greatest betrayer.

Lee had captured or killed outlaws who were smart and those who were dimwitted; those who were fast and treacherous, and those who were slow and posed no threat at all. But each man was unique and challenged him in a slightly different way. Lee lived for that.

Almost from every aspect Lee was anti-social. He held no affection for people, places, or things. He preferred being outdoors far from towns, taking in stride the sun and the rain, the heat and the cold. Yet his occupation required information―information that sometimes could only be obtained by riding into a town. A quiet ride in, a few pointed questions, a quiet ride out. He did not drink nor smoke nor hire women for sex. Normally his mind was occupied with only one thought: What would be his prey’s next move, or three, or six?

Whenever the time came to end the chase, he did so with absolute resolution: one chance to surrender and live to face a jury and a rope. Or one wrong move that would end it all. Most had made the fatal mistake, which Lee had come to prefer. Dragging along a live outlaw sometimes hundreds of miles to face a jury was much more dangerous than leading the man’s horse with the body draped across the saddle. Yet he would dutifully deliver the outlaw intact when the man had surrendered.

What crime the outlaw had perpetrated against society held no interest for Lee. Nor did the size of the reward. The amount of cash he had collected from bounties over the years was substantial. But, other than the small portion required to keep him outfitted, the money meant little.

What mattered was the chase.

The twists and turns of his prey gave him something to contemplate and understand, something to counter and overcome. Lee was an expert at patience and persistence. He had captured or killed every man he had hunted. Not one had escaped. Not one.

XXIX.

Miles Stayton was a middle son of the Stayton clan. As a child he had noticed the attention of his father and mother centered on his older and younger brothers, particularly Travis the oldest and Little Joey the youngest. Although he had not questioned why that was the case, the relative lack of affection had caused him to turn inward. As a result he had grown up the most self-reliant and the most wayward of all the Stayton sons.

During his youth he had developed his own method to gain the family’s attention. He had found clever cynical comments caused his parents and his brothers to turn their heads in his direction. Whereas his motivation was to amuse the family, his remarks inevitably were taken as obnoxious. He had therefore become known as the smart aleck of the clan.

Yet Miles was one of the more intelligent sons and he possessed a knack for satisfying not only his needs but many of his wants. He had learned from an early age the fiercest competitor received what limited resources were available. What he wanted therefore he took, often at the point of a gun.

As all the Stayton sons, Miles had been introduced to guns at an early age. When he discovered how persuasive a weapon could be he devoted himself to developing skill and confidence in the expert handling of a firearm. Outside of his brother, Gil, Miles was the fastest draw of all the sons. That characteristic coupled with a volatile temper had sent four men to boot hill and had made him a wanted man in Texas.

By the time he was sixteen years old he had lost much of his interest in family affairs. Shortly after his seventeenth birthday he left home. He drifted north. When he ran out of money he robbed a stagecoach, killing the guard. When the local sheriff formed a posse, Miles experienced what it was to be a hunted man. The posse had surprised him one night shortly after the robbery. He was wounded in the side before he killed two of the men and narrowly escaped with his life. The pain and shock of the incident had shown him the penalty for carelessness and he vowed never to be caught off-guard again.

He had traveled through many towns of the West before he drifted into Fort Smith on a cool rainy night. Gambling at draw poker in a saloon he found himself holding an Ace-high flush. The drunkard betting against him showed two pair but did not have the cash to pay the loss. In exchange the man signed over the deed to a small farm in southeastern Arkansas.

Eventually Miles visited the property, never planning to stay and abhorring the thought of becoming a farmer. But when he arrived he found the cabin comfortable and the land attractive. After a time he decided to plant a few crops and he was pleasantly surprised at the rich harvest. He found he could easily subsist off the farm and he began to enjoy the security of owning property. Ever wary however that the past might show up on his doorstep he was unyielding in maintaining his skill with a gun.

Then in the spring of 1873 he received a telegram from his father. On a night in middle May he packed, and the next morning he headed out.

Almost from the time he left he had felt a strange sensation. Again and again he asked himself whether he had forgotten something―something essential. The first night out therefore he took careful inventory of his gear. He found nothing missing.

His thoughts were mostly occupied with the anticipation of meeting his pa and brothers in Oklahoma City. Three years had passed since he had seen his family and he tried to imagine how each of his brothers might have changed. He was especially eager to see his pa and to determine how he had faired during the interval.

Still, somewhere in his mind a small blank spot caused him to pause every time his train of thought centered on the void. What was that?

The lack of knowledge of what could be causing the subtle distress caused him to pull in the reins. He turned in the saddle and looked behind him. He held the horse perfectly still for several minutes. Scanning left and right, near and far, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He pulled the brim of his hat lower to block the glare of the afternoon sun. Then he nudged the horse with his spurs. After only a hundred yards his mind tripped over the mental blank again. This time he consciously lingered on the void, knowing it meant something but not knowing what. After a moment a shiver raced down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He abruptly pulled in the reins and the horse stopped. He jerked around in the saddle and looked behind him. Again nothing.

destination after they had passed Pine Bluff and the man had been heading directly toward the Oklahoma town.

Lee had figured however to end the chase even as early as tomorrow night. To do that, he would have to find where the man had gone. He figured the man’s most likely diversion was to the river where the man could hide his tracks in the water.

To make sure, he began riding in wide arcs, trying to catch sight of a hoof print or a broken twig or the particular lie of a few blades of grass. A half hour passed before he found what he was looking for. A horse’s shoe had scraped across a rock. He rode a little farther and came upon the leafy branch the man had used to cover his tracks. He frowned with disappointment and he shook his head. No use playing any longer. The time had come to He quickly took stock of his location. He had been traveling at a leisurely pace in a generally northwest direction. He knew the Arkansas River was east of him by no more than a few miles. He veered the horse from the trail and brought the animal to a lope in that direction.

When he reached the river he walked the horse into the shallows along the bank and reversed direction. He rode southeast for nearly a quarter mile. Then he rode up onto the bank. By now the sun had sunk lower in the sky and the trees along the bank filtered the light. He rode another mile and then stopped and made camp.

The next morning he was awake before dawn. When he mounted up he turned the horse southeast again. He rode along the riverbank for nearly three miles. Then he turned west to rejoin the trail he had been riding the day before.

As he approached the trail his instincts were on high alert. He brought the animal to a halt alongside a large boulder. After dismounting he retrieved the field glasses from one of his saddlebags. Resting his elbows on the boulder he examined the area in every direction. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He mounted up and walked the horse onto the trail. Before long he saw his own horse’s hoof prints from the day before. They were the only tracks on the trail.

He walked the horse for a quarter mile, carefully looking for a second set of tracks. He found none.

“Get up.”

His thoughts again turned to his pa and brothers. The telegram he had received several weeks ago read:

WADE, CLEM DEAD. PARSON BLANE, ABILENE, KS, CULPRIT. MEET OK CITY LATE MAY/JUNE –PA

The purpose of his trip therefore was clear. After joining up with the family they would ride north to Abilene and kill this man, Parson Blane. Interesting, that the man was a preacher. Also interesting that Pa would want him along. Normally Pa and his brothers did not need his gun. But then again Hickok was Marshal of Abilene. That circumstance might warrant the extra hardware. Whatever the reason, Miles was happy for the chance to see his pa and brothers and to help take revenge for the deaths of Wade and Clem.

XXX.

Royce Lee knew that a wanted man, more often than not, was a hunted man. And a hunted man would do almost anything to escape the hunter. Circling back to check his trail was a common tactic among hunted men. Lee had witnessed it countless times and had developed habits to remain undetected.

First, he always followed a man at a distance that would allow the man plenty of time to double back on his own trail before Lee ever arrived at that location. Second, he never directly followed the man’s path. Instead he rode a quarter mile to the right or left, drifting only occasionally onto the man’s trail to make sure the man was still traveling in the same direction.

Sometimes Lee’s technique of tracking a man was burdensome for him, especially when he was forced to ride through high brush. But his method had proven so successful over the years that he entertained little thought of altering it.

By noon he had already detected where the man he hunted had rejoined the trail after doubling back. A corner of his mouth curled up. It was a tired trick. And it showed no imagination. He wondered whether he should cut the chase short to end what was fast becoming a bore.

Lee removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. His stomach growled and he felt the pangs of hunger. He turned his horse east. “Come on, boy, let’s go over to the river.”

At the river he let the horse drink. Then he walked the animal a few yards from the river’s edge and staked him in the grass. He pulled a bar of soap from a saddlebag and walked back to the riverbank. He took off everything except his boots and waded into the water and washed himself thoroughly.

When he was done he threw the bar of soap onto the bank. He remained in the shallows for several minutes enjoying the relatively cool flow of the water. Then he walked onto the bank and sat down on a patch of grass to drip-dry.

His thoughts returned to the man ahead of him. The man was the brother of Al Stayton whom he had already killed. This man was proving no craftier than his brother and again Lee thought of ending the chase. Perhaps his next victim would present more of a challenge.

He stood up and put on his clothes. Then he retrieved some jerky and a corn dodger from a saddlebag. He sat down on the riverbank and thoroughly chewed his lunch, washing it down with water from his canteen.

Finally he drew the six-shooter from his holster and checked the load. After he wiped the gun clean with his handkerchief he slipped the revolver into the holster and strapped the thong over the hammer.

An hour later he had reached the trail and casually looked down to check the tracks.

None was there.

He cocked his head. “Hmm.” He carefully looked in every direction. Nothing.

For the first time in a long time, he smiled. The game had begun.

“Alright Pardner, where’d ya go?”

He rode a few hundred feet, scrutinizing the trail. Perhaps the man ahead of him had brushed out his tracks with a leafy branch. Sometimes one could distinguish the brush marks, sometimes not.

He figured that by following the trail long enough he would be able to detect the telltale signs of the man’s brushing out the tracks. But soon he concluded the man had left the trail altogether.

Still it was of little concern. He already knew where the man was headed: Oklahoma City. It was the next major destination after they had passed Pine Bluff and the man had been heading directly toward the Oklahoma town.

To make sure, he began riding in wide arcs, trying to catch sight of a hoof print or a broken twig or the particular lie of a few blades of grass. A half hour passed before he found what he was looking for. A horse’s shoe had scraped across a rock. He rode a little farther and came upon the leafy branch the man had used to cover his tracks. He frowned with disappointment and he shook his head. No use playing any longer. The time had come to end the game. He lifted the reins and gave a quick jab of spurs.

At the river’s edge he quickly located where the man had entered the water. Now he had a decision to make. Which way? More than likely the man would not have doubled back on his trail again so soon. He therefore turned northwest and began looking for tracks where the man had exited the river.

After a quarter mile without finding tracks he pulled in the reins. He arched his back and lifted his arms over his head and stretched. He should have found the tracks by now. After another quarter mile he reined in again. Surely the man would not have walked his horse for a half mile in the water. Would have he? Finally, after he had ridden a total of more than a mile he knew something was wrong. There should have been tracks leading out of the water but he had found none.

He took off his hat and scratched his head. He peered at the opposite side of the river. Surely the man would not have crossed the river. On the one hand crossing the river would have put the man on the wrong side of the water to reach Oklahoma City. On the other hand the river was deep and wide. The man’s horse would have had to swim the width and fight the current as well. Judging by the distance to the opposite bank he seriously questioned whether the feat could be accomplished.

The only other possibility was that the man indeed had reversed direction when he first entered the water so as to double back on his trail a second time within two days. And the thought of that possibility gave Lee pause. If the man had doubled back a second time he had brought Lee in much closer than Lee was comfortable with. The possibility always existed that the hunter would become the hunted.

Reluctantly he turned his horse around and began following the riverbank to the southeast. After retracing his trail for about a mile he began looking for tracks where the man had come out of the river. He kept alert, carefully scanning the trail ahead. He was wary of an ambush.

After another quarter mile he spotted the tracks of the man’s horse from the day before but he still had not found fresh tracks. After another mile he came upon the man’s camp from the night before―but still no tracks leading out of the water. The situation was becoming downright frustrating!

Again he looked across the river.

He dismounted and walked to the water’s edge. He knelt on one knee and splashed water onto his face. Then he wiped away the water with his hands. He looked closely at the river, the current, and the opposite bank. What had been the last resort had become the only resort. The man must have crossed.

When he mounted up he walked the horse into the shallows and drew up. Carefully he reviewed what he was about to do. The danger was his horse would exhaust himself before they reached the other side. In that instance they both would probably drown. He had to be sure in his mind that the man he was after had indeed crossed the river. Could he have missed the man’s tracks? Had he somehow been tricked?

When he nudged the animal with his spurs, the horse did not move. “I know, boy. It’s a long way across. Let’s try for a little ways and see how we do.” He spurred the animal with authority and the horse headed out. After several steps the bottom fell away and the horse began to swim. Lee hung onto the saddle horn and allowed his body to stretch out and glide in the water.

After about a hundred yards, Lee looked over his shoulder at the riverbank he had left behind. He could clearly see the current was taking them downriver at fair speed. He listened to the horse’s breathing for further signs of tiring. The animal’s respiration had already become slightly labored. Lee raised his head and tried to glimpse the distance to the opposite bank. But from his viewing angle it was impossible to judge. All he could see ahead of him was water.

“This is nuts!”

He pulled on the left rein and the horse’s head slowly came around until they were headed back to the bank from which they had come.

The horror that happened next came quickly and without warning. An instant before he heard the thunderous roar of the rifle shot, he heard: Phtt! Whack! The blood from the horse’s head splattered onto his face and into his eyes. The horse immediately went limp and began to sink. By the time Lee released his grip on the saddle horn the sinking horse had pulled him five feet under.

When Lee popped above the surface he coughed out the water he had swallowed and he struggled to catch his breath. Again he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet’s whir and he felt the projectile pass within inches of his ear. Quickly he drew in a breath and submerged.

Beneath the water he pulled off his boots. Then he stroked with his arms and kicked with his legs to bring his body parallel to the surface. He swam as far as he could until he had to surface for air.

He began to tread water just below the surface and tilted his head back. When he breached the surface only his mouth and nose were above water. He spent several moments in that position, catching his breath. Then he filled his lungs with air and submerged again.

Now his objective was to allow the current to sweep him downriver until he was out of range of the gunman. Additionally he had to make best use of his strength. Each time he submerged therefore he took several strokes toward the bank.

After a time he risked surfacing. He treaded water for several moments, breathing in desperately needed oxygen.

He heard no gunshots.

After another few moments he began to swim toward the riverbank. He could see the current had taken him farther downriver and that he was still a long way from the bank. Luckily he was a strong swimmer but, even so, he seriously questioned whether he could negotiate the current and the distance to the river’s edge.

He began to swim in easy breast strokes, keeping his head above water and trying to regulate his heart rate and to calm his nerves. After several minutes he began to shed the panic that had plagued him since his horse had been shot. But the shock of the incident had been like a blow to the stomach. Much of his strength had been drained away in the hysteria of the ordeal.

Slowly the distance to the riverbank decreased and for the first time he sensed a glimmer of hope that he just might make it.

If the glimmer of hope burned like a candle, the flame quickly extinguished itself when Lee glimpsed a fleeting movement on the riverbank. Instantly he stopped swimming forward and began to tread water. There it was again!

Someone was riding along the river’s edge. Lee entertained no illusions regarding the rider’s identity. The man who had tricked him was determined to finish the job.

Once again Lee submerged and began to swim underwater but what little strength remained was fading fast. Whenever he surfaced, the oxygen did little to renew his energy.

Additionally the cool water had already begun to lower his body temperature. That fact combined with the necessity to swim underwater, which deprived him of a ready-supply of oxygen, depleted his energy at an accelerated rate. As the long minutes passed sheer exhaustion steadily overtook him.

Finally he surfaced. He had neither the strength nor the oxygen reserve to worry about the gunman possibly spotting him. He must get to the riverbank at all costs.

He swam on, but his strokes were slow and weak.

Before long he began to lose mental focus. Each stroke now was governed only by the instinct to survive―one arm in front of the other over and over again. Occasionally he kicked his legs. All perception of time faded from his consciousness. He was mindful only of the water and the impulse to swim for his life.

Several minutes passed.

Finally he was too weak to swim forward anymore. He began to tread water but his strokes were too feeble to keep him afloat. His head sank below the surface. The fear of drowning produced a spurt of adrenaline that he used to kick his legs to surface momentarily. Then he sank again.

One more spike of fear. Once more he surfaced. When he sank again he tried to stroke and to kick but his arms and legs only twitched. He sank deeper.

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 7)

2008-07-28T10:48:00.003-04:00

XXIII.

The rain had hung on for most of the night. By morning the overcast had somewhat broken up and occasionally the sun peeked through the clouds. The air smelled fresh and clean but the ground was soggy and spotted with water in small murky puddles. To the west the sky was marked with dark clouds heavily laden with more rain.

As Julie walked to the corral behind the boarding house she tried to step on tufts of grass that would keep her boots dry. But her effort was to little avail. The farther she walked, the muddier her boots became. When she stepped across a shallow but particularly wide puddle she lengthened her strides, placing only that portion of each boot that contained her toes and the ball of her foot into the water. The puddle responded with a splish, splish, splish as her steps forced the water up and out, sending ripples to the puddle’s edges.

When she looked up and saw Grace, the horse’s ears were pricked and the animal was looking directly at her. Precisely at that moment a burst of sunlight shone through the clouds and reflected from the animal’s golden coat and blond mane. The horse’s beauty caused Julie to stop and stare.

“Hello, girl,” she finally said. “Look here. I brought you an apple.”

Julie held the apple in her palm, fingers close together and her hand flat, as Charli had taught her. Grace chewed the apple with obvious delight as Julie stroked the animal’s neck.

Julie retrieved Grace’s blanket, saddle and bridle from the small shed beside the corral. The horse stood patiently as Julie saddled her.

After Julie led Grace out of the corral and closed the gate, she placed her boot in the stirrup and swung up. “Okay, girl. Let’s go.”

XXIV.

Mr. Theophilus Little, the town’s Mayor, was a man involved in many civic and business activities. He owned a lumber yard located at the corner of Walnut and First Street. He was also the president of the city council and the president of the school board.

The supply wagon had arrived early in the morning and Little was busily checking the order as one of his employees unloaded the wagon. He did not notice Julie when she rode up and dismounted.

Julie quickly surveyed the situation and guessed that the man standing beside the wagon was probably the man she sought.

“Excuse me sir, I’m looking for Mr. Little.”

Without turning the man said, “You found him. Ed, how many two-by-fours did you count?”

“An even thirty, boss.”

“Well, check again. There should be thirty-five.”

“Mr. Little, I’m Julie Weber.”

“Do you mind if we talk here, Miss Weber? I have to get this wagon unloaded.” Little scribbled something on the form attached to the clipboard he held in his hands. Then he turned his head and glanced at Julie who had stepped beside him. “I was surprised when you chose to come to Abilene so soon. I thought I was clear when I said you should arrive in the fall.”

“I know, but I wanted to arrive early and get settled in. I heard Mrs. Somerset has already retired. I figure you’re going to need someone to teach summer school.”

Little smiled faintly. “We don’t have summer school, Miss Weber.”

“I figure it’s time to start one.”

Little turned again. Keeping his gaze on Julie, he called, “Ed, did you find those other five?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, the order says thirty-five!”

“I’m looking, boss.”

“Miss Weber,” Little said calmly, “there’s no summer school and the next school year starts in the fall. I’m afraid you arrived much too early.”

“What about the remaining time for school before summer vacation? I was told the children have not attended school for a month already. And there’s at least another three weeks before school should be let out.”

“Mrs. Somerset’s health was a factor in ending school early this year. The next classes don’t start until the fall. That’s when I indicated you should arrive.”

“Now that I’m here, I see no problem in finishing out this school year, holding summer school, and beginning the next school year in the fall.”

Julie watched her comments register on Little’s face. The man’s countenance had begun to turn red and Julie braced for an angry response.

“Here’s the other five, boss!”

Little turned toward the man on the wagon. “Good!” he called. Little again scribbled on the form. “Now, let’s unload the two-by-sixes!”

“Okay, boss.”

“Miss Weber, I’m awful busy right now.”

“Yes, I understand. When would it be convenient for us to meet again and discuss this?”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Mr. Little, I plan to restart school on Monday. Then I plan to hold classes during the summer for those students who are behind and for those who want extra credit. In the fall, we’ll start the regular session again.

“Now, I’d like to talk about the horrible condition the schoolhouse is in and the cost of bringing it up to standards.”

“I see thirty two-by-sixes, boss,” Ed called.

Little took a step away from Julie as if standing next to her was beginning to make his blood boil. He read from the order form. “Ed, there’s supposed to be thirty-five of those as well!”

“Okay, boss, I’ll check again.”

“Miss Weber,” Little said without looking up, “there’s no money in the budget for any of what you’re suggesting. Additionally, you will not receive your first paycheck until the fall. I’m afraid you arrived early for nothing.”

Julie drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Mr. Little, are you forbidding me to teach the rest of the school year and to hold summer school?”

“Forbidding you?”

“Yes. I’m willing to teach for no pay until the fall. My primary concern is for the children’s education. I brought all my savings and, with a little luck, it should last until I begin receiving pay in the fall.”

Little turned and looked directly into Julie’s eyes for several moments. Finally he said, “Okay, Miss Weber. You can do whatever you want concerning the school. I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Little. You won’t stop me, but it sounds like you won’t help either.”

“Lady, what do you want from me?”

“Would it be too much to ask for some of that lumber you’re unloading? The floor in the schoolhouse has holes in it and some of the desks need repairs.”

“Oh no. Every piece of lumber you see here is going for the construction of the new church.”

“Okay, Mr. Little. I understand. Thank you very much.” Julie held out her hand.

Little looked down at her hand. After several moments of silent debate, he reached out and the two shook.

XXV.

When Charli arrived at the schoolhouse, the palomino was tied to the hitching rail. As she swung down from the saddle, the door opened and Julie walked out.

“Hello Charli.”

“Hiya Julie. I brought the buckets and the scrub brushes and the soap.”

“Good. We’ll fill the buckets from the pump out back. Washing down the inside will probably take most of the afternoon but, after we’re done, will you show me where they’re building the new church?”

“Sure. Ya figger on askin’ for help fixin’ up the school?”

“Yes.”

“Old man Little didn’t come through for ya, huh?”

“Yes and no. He said I could do anything I want concerning the school. But he also made it plain there’s no money in the budget for a summer school session and for making the needed repairs to the schoolhouse.”

“I figgered ya be on your own. I’m tellin’ ya. School is not that big a deal around here.”

Julie had collected the buckets and was walking toward the back of the schoolhouse with Charli in tow. She stopped and turned. “I plan on changing all that, Charli.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But there must be a way to make people understand that a formal education is important to every child.”

“Maybe in the East that’s so. But this land is different, Julie. Life is tough out here. Ranchers and farmers need their kids to help with the chores. Kids have to know how to ride and rope and how to plant and harvest. Cows have to be milked and animals have to be fed and watered everyday. And there’s a hundred other things that must be done just to keep a ranch or a farm goin’. The old man and the old lady on a homestead just can’t do it all. Why, shoot! Some of them have lots of kids just to have the help they need to survive.”

Julie remained silent for several moments. She trusted Charli’s knowledge of the West enough to know her young companion was explaining the simple truth. “So, what’s the answer, Charli? To just give up? I can’t do that.”

“No, I’m not sayin’ give up. I’m just tellin’ ya what you’re up against. Schoolin’ is not that important.”

“But it is important, Charli. It’s extremely important. The right formal education is the way to freedom from a hand-to-mouth existence. In many cases, it’s the only way for a young person to break the cycle of hard physical labor required simply to survive. Make no mistake about it, Charli. Poor people do without.”

Charli bowed her head. “I spose that’s true. There’s been many a time when I wished I could buy a new saddle. And old man Riley just got in a shipment of those new Colt pistols. Man! What I would give to be able to buy one of those!”

“You see? That’s what I’m talking about. Only it’s about more than just having more money. It’s about having a wider range of opportunities and about actualizing more of one’s potential. It’s about providing security and comfort for one’s family and about contributing to society.”

“We contribute to society, Julie. Why we sell the best horses in the county. Just about anybody will say that.”

“Yes, Charli. Grace is proof of that. I bet there’s not a better horse in the county.”

“Exceptin’ mine, of course.”

“What I’m saying is the right formal education can throw open the doors to a whole new world of opportunities! Charli, think what it would mean if you had the knowledge to perform the surgery that saved someone’s life. Or imagine that you had the knowledge to present the argument in a courtroom that saved a forest from destruction. Or that you had the knowledge to design a bridge across a raging river. I believe God gave each person a special talent that should be nurtured and then used for His glory. I also believe the best way to develop one’s talent is through the right formal education. When we know what the great minds in our field have produced in the past, we can stand on their shoulders to make our unique contribution to the present and to the future.”

“Wow, Julie. You keep talkin’ like that and you’re gonna make me want to come to school.”

“For those with lesser ability it doesn’t have to be on the same level, though it’s always best to aim high. It could also be very simple. Everyone should at least know how to read the Bible, the greatest book ever written. Also there are so many other books to read. Some, for example, describe places one will never be able to visit. The world is so much bigger than most people know, Charli. Part of the benefit of the right formal education is that it edifies and informs the individual as nothing else can.”

“What do ya mean when ya say the ‘right’ formal education?”

“Part of what I mean is that the education is tailored to the individual. Studying to be an engineer, for example, might be the right education for you. But studying to be a lawyer might be the right education for me. Understand?

“Also a person must obtain the terminal degree in his field. No one begins to build a house and quits halfway through. Having a Bachelors degree in Psychology, for example, is best used to qualify for the Masters and then the terminal degree in that field, the Ph.D. In the job

market having merely a Bachelors in Psychology is not worth much. I know because my roommate in college quit school after she received her Bachelors in Psychology and she wound up not being able to get a job in her field at all. Many other fields of study are like that as well. So, once one starts his education, he must continue straight through until he has earned the highest degree in his field!

“Also, one must consider the right time to obtain his education. The best time to gain one’s education is immediately after high school and to attend school without interruption until one has obtained the terminal degree. To wait until later, or to interrupt one’s course of studies for any reason, poses the serious risk of not being able to complete one’s education. So, the right formal education means all important considerations regarding one’s education are met satisfactorily.”

“Okay, I get it.”

The two walked to the pump and Charli began filling the buckets with water. After Charli had filled the second bucket, she said. “You used some mighty fancy words back there, Julie. But I think I know what ya mean about education bein’ important.”

“Well, it probably all comes down to this: Most everyone wants a better life and especially a better life for his children. In many, many cases, the right formal education is the key to that better life.”

“Ya sure ya don’t believe that just ’cause you’re a teacher?”

“Charli, because I believe that I became a teacher. I may not be cut out to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. But my hope is that I will have a hand in teaching children who will one day become those professionals.”

Julie picked up one of the buckets and Charli picked up the other. Together they walked toward the entrance of the schoolhouse.

Julie glanced at Charli. “Now what about you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“What about me?”

“Do you attend school?”

“I haven’t been in school since I was a kid.”

Julie held back the urge to chuckle. To her Charli was still a ‘kid.’ “Do you know how to read?”

“I know what the signs say around town.”

“I mean, can you read a book?”

“No. But that don’t make me stupid.”

“Of course it doesn’t, Charli. In fact you’re about as savvy as any young person I’ve met. It seems a waste though not to put your intelligence to better use.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just wondering where your interests lie.”

“You mean, what do I like to do?”

“What do you love to do?”

“I love horses, Julie. I love to ride like the wind. That’s my favorite thing.”

“Do you love all animals or just horses?”

“I love all animals. I like animals more than I like people. People can be mean and hurt ya. Animals can be mean too. But normally it’s ’cause they’re scared or ’cause they’ve been mistreated.”

“So you would want a career caring for animals.”

“A career?”

“Yes. Something you love and can devote yourself to and earn enough money to buy that saddle and that gun you want.”

“Aw, you’re talkin’ crazy.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“Hey. You’re not trying to trick me into coming to school, are ya?”

“No, Charli. Education is something you must want, something you want almost more than anything else. And you’ll never want it until you understand what it can do for you and for your family and for others.”

“Aw, no. I’m happy the way I am.”

“You’re happy being uneducated?”

“I’m pretty smart already.”

“Being smart and being educated are two different things.”

“Look, Julie. You’re pushin’ pretty hard. I just don’t want to come to school. Okay?”

“Okay, Charli. I’ll drop the subject. I was just wondering if you had a calling. Most people do, you know.”

“What’s ‘a calling’?”

“You know. Something deep inside you that keeps drawing your thoughts toward it. Almost like a secret wish, or like a crazy dream that if it came true―well, you get the idea.”

“I’ve got lots of crazy dreams, Julie.”

“No, I’m talking about that special one. The one that fulfills your mission here on earth.”

“Aw, there ain’t no such thing.”

“For some people there is, Charli. I guess they’re the lucky ones.”

“How are they lucky?”

“They have something to give themselves to. Something that arouses their passion for living.”

Charli looked up at Julie. Half-smiling she said, “Aw, come on. You’re makin’ that up.”

Julie stopped and turned toward the girl. “No, Charli. I’m very serious. Have you ever heard of Christopher Columbus for instance?”

“No.”

“He’s the explorer who discovered America. He believed a person could get east by sailing west—how’s that for a crazy dream? As a result he discovered this land we live in today, the greatest country in the world. He followed his passion, Charli. History is full of great men and women who had a dream and believed in it enough to make it come true.” Julie looked into Charli’s eyes. “It’s inside you, Charli, as sure as we’re standing here.”

XXVI.

When Julie and Charli entered the schoolhouse, Charli asked, “Okay, how do ya want to do this?”

Julie threw some soap into each of the buckets. “That’s easy enough,” she said, plunging one of the long-handled brushes into the water. Then she kicked the buckets over and the soapy water covered the floor. “We scrub every inch of this place until it’s spotless!”

The two worked continuously and silently for almost two hours. Occasionally Julie and then Charli would take the buckets and fill them with water from the pump. They washed the walls, the windows, the shelves, and the desks.

Finally, Julie said, “Okay, let’s keep filling the buckets until the whole place is rinsed clean. Then we’ll be done and everything can dry for the rest of the day and tomorrow.”

“Julie, were you serious when you said I might have a calling?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“In the beginning stages, Charli, your calling is between you and God. He has planted the seed in your heart. As the seed grows and you pursue the right formal education, your vision becomes more apparent. As long as you hold to your dream and doggedly pursue the academic goals that must be accomplished, you will one day be qualified and possess the credentials to practice in your field.

“You said life is tough out here. Charli, life is tough everywhere. It tests the spirit and like a white-hot fire melts away the impurities until all that’s left is what we’re truly made of. At the end when we lay down our lives, we want to know we gave our very best and that we fought hardest when times were worst. We want to know we gave life our all and that by means of the right formal education we became all we could have been. Anything less is a cardinal sin of omission.”

Charli stood silent for several moments. Then she nodded her understanding.

Julie picked up the buckets and walked to the pump and filled them with water. When she returned, she took one bucket and Charli took the other and they splashed down the room. They repeated the procedure again and again until, finally, Julie said, “Okay, that’s good enough.”

The two gathered up the buckets, the remaining soap, and the brushes. Then they walked out of the building to the horses. As Charli was tying the buckets to her saddle, she glanced over her shoulder, “You still want to go to where they’re building the church?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Charli. I must look a mess!”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Well, I guess it’ll be okay.”

By the time the two arrived at the construction site, the sky had grown dark and ugly. In the distance thunder growled and then tumbled across the heavens. The wind had begun to kick up the dust in the streets.

The construction site was a beehive of activity. People were everywhere. Some were hammering nails, some were sawing boards, and some were crisscrossing the site carrying needed materials to the various workers.

After the two dismounted, Charli turned to Julie. “That’s Ben Blackman. He’s in charge here.”

Julie turned her head and peered at Blackman who was speaking with a tall man with coal black wavy hair. The man was pulling on his shirt as the temperature had fallen a few degrees. Something inside her leapt as she watched the man. Unconsciously she touched her hair. Once again she reminded herself how untidy she looked and she felt embarrassed.

Charli began walking toward Blackman. “Come on.”

Julie stood still another moment watching the tall man with Blackman. Then the tall man turned and walked toward the building. Blackman followed the man for a few steps and then stopped. He waved his hands in the air and shouted, “That’s it for today. Let’s cover the lumber and the tools. We’ve got a storm coming!”

When Charli noticed Julie was not behind her, she stopped and turned. “Ya comin’?”

Julie shifted her gaze to Charli. “Yes, of course.”

Blackman glanced up when he spied the two women approaching him. He was busy rolling up a set of drawings and securing them with string.

Just then the first drops of rain began to fall.

“Hi Charli,” Blackman said. He tipped his hat. “Hello, Miss. Whatever it is, I’m afraid it’s gonna have to wait. I can’t let these plans get wet.” He tucked the drawings under his vest. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Even as Blackman turned and jogged away, the rain began to fall in earnest.

Charli said, “Come on. Let’s get to the horses!”

Before she turned, Julie looked toward the construction site where the crew was covering the lumber and the tools with tarps. She did not see the tall man.

“Come on!” Charli shouted as she turned to run.

Julie hesitated a moment longer. Almost desperately she searched the faces of the construction crew. The tall man was nowhere in sight. Then she turned and ran with Charli to the horses.

XXVII.

Julie handed a fluffy white towel to Charli and then began drying herself with her own. By the time they had arrived at the boarding house, both of them were soaking wet.

“Charli? Who was that man talking with Mr. Blackman at the construction site?”

“Which man?”

“Didn’t you see him? He was tall and had black hair. He was talking with Mr. Blackman when we got to the site.”

“No, I didn’t notice. Why?”

“Just curious, I guess. You sure you didn’t see him?”

“No, I don’t remember anybody. Why? Did he strike your fancy?”

“Oh Charli. Here, let me find you something dry to change into. How about a nice pretty dress?”

Charli raised her eyebrows and her jaw dropped.

Julie held up her hand. “Just kidding!”

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 6)

2008-06-03T14:39:00.000-04:00

XVIII.

Amos glanced over at Marshal Watson again. “Marshal, it’s time to roll out of the sack.”

Amos lifted the cup of coffee to his lips and sipped the liquid. Over the rim of the cup, he kept his gaze on the Marshal. He looked for the steady rising and falling of the blanket for evidence that the man was breathing. Nothing living was ever that still.

He slowly reached down and placed the tin cup on the ground. “Marshal?”

When he stood up, he drew in a cautious breath and exhaled with resignation. He had waited long enough so that he had satisfied his sense of courtesy and respect. If the Marshal was asleep, Amos knew he had earned the right to awaken him. If the Marshal was not asleep the time had come to find out.

He stepped around the fire and circled the Marshal at a distance. He now could see the Marshal’s face. It held no expression and the man’s eyes were closed. Reluctantly, Amos took a step closer. Almost in a whisper, he said, “Marshal?”

Closer still. No rising and falling of the blanket. No movement at all. Amos crouched and watched the Marshal for another few moments. Finally, he reached out and placed his hand on the Marshal’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Marshal?”

When the Marshal did not stir, Amos placed two of his fingers on the Marshal’s neck seeking a pulse. He felt none. He withdrew his hand. For another few moments he remained crouched by the Marshal’s side. Then he slowly lowered himself and sat on the ground with his arms extended and supported by his knees. After a moment, he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

When he raised his head, his cheeks were wet with tears.

He placed a hand on the ground and stood up.

Over the next hour, he broke camp, saddled the horses and strapped the Marshal’s body over the Marshal’s horse. Then he mounted up.

He was about to turn his horse when something shiny reflected a ray of sun from the valley below. He looked down and saw several riders. Five men on horseback. One man slumped to the side in the saddle and continually held his hand on his waist. The men rode in a loose trail formation and the last rider led a pack horse.

Amos watched them for several minutes. Those riders were the ones who had caused so much death and destruction in the town he had always known as quiet and peaceful. Now the town would never be quite the same.

He gently nudged the horse with his heels. “Come on, boy. Let’s go home. They’re somebody else’s problem now.”

XIX.

Julie had just finished dressing when a gentle knock came at the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Amie, Miss Weber.”

Julie walked to the door and opened it. She looked down at the little girl and smiled.

“Mommy sent me to ask you how many eggs and how many flapjacks you want for breakfast.”

“Oh my. Eggs and flapjacks. Doesn’t that sound delicious.”

“They’re real good, ma’am. And we use real maple syrup.”

“Well, you tell your mommy, I’d like one egg and one flapjack please.”

“Okay. One of each. Oh! How would you like your egg cooked?”

“I’ll take it over-easy.”

“Okay, Miss Weber.” The little girl turned on her heel and ran to the staircase and scurried down the steps.

When Julie entered the dining room, the other boarders were already seated at the table. Yesterday, during her first breakfast at the boarding house, she had become acquainted with each one.

Tim Sweeny sat across from her. He was a lad slightly younger than she. Sweeny’s complexion was extremely fair and his cheeks always appeared flush, as if he had just finished rubbing them. Sweeny was a clerk at Hazlett’s General Store.

Next was Gus Schmidt, a balding man in his mid-forties whose most prominent feature was his potbelly. Julie had heard he was a skilled carpenter.

Zeke Borland was the oldest among the boarders, perhaps in his middle sixties. Although he was officially retired from the insurance sales business, he sometimes still tried to sell life insurance to qualified prospects.

Then there was Mrs. Pemberton, a widow of about ten years and an active member of the church. She seemed to delight in extolling the virtues of the late Mr. Pemberton who had made his living as a cobbler. But among her faults was the tendency to gossip.

Finally, Leo Moretti tended bar at the Alamo Saloon. He was a man of about fifty years of age with a head of thick gray hair. Moretti was a quiet man, preferring to listen rather than to talk, which suited him nicely to the business of tending bar where customers regularly expressed their troubles to a hopefully sympathetic ear.

Julie was pouring herself coffee when Andy entered from the kitchen carrying a couple of plates of food. He placed the first plate in front of Borland and the other in front of Mrs. Pemberton. On his next trip, he placed a plate in front of Moretti and one in front of Schmidt. Finally, he brought a plate for Sweeny and one for Julie.

“What are you planning to do today?” Sweeny asked from across the table. He sat erect in his chair and sipped coffee. His cheeks appeared on fire as the sunlight beamed through the window and reflected off his face.

“Oh, I have a lot of work to do to get ready for school. This morning I’ll be working on lesson plans. I believe in thorough preparation before I walk into the classroom each day. Then this afternoon Charli Benton is going to show me the schoolhouse.”

Borland leaned back in his chair. “What I’ve found most important in life is knowing human nature. Look at me. I’ve been a successful salesman for most of my life. Now I’m retired on a comfortable income. I’ve done all that by studying human nature, the kind of thing you can’t put in books.”

Julie shifted in her seat. She told herself to wait before responding to what she interpreted as an attack on formal education.

“Seems to me,” Borland continued, “a person could have all the book-learning in the world and never become a success if he didn’t know human nature.”

“I don’t know about that,” Schmidt said. He scooted away from the table to make room for his potbelly which bulged from the several flapjacks he had eaten. “In my line of work of building things it’s practical experience that counts. You learn by watching someone who already knows how to do it. You study the way he performs the task and you do it day after day. Most things people do have a set of steps that you gotta do in order. Get one step out of order and you might ruin the whole project. I don’t see much use for knowing human nature when it comes to building a house, for example. A person who can build a house is probably worth more than someone who can sell a life insurance policy. So, I say it’s experience that counts.”

Borland raised his eyebrows. “Now wait just a minute! I agree that the know-how to build a house is important, but let me tell you just how important life insurance is—”

“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Pemberton interrupted. “Let’s not argue. I’m sure everyone will agree that both knowing human nature and having experience are important. Funny thing is, my husband, God rest his soul, always used to say, ‘It’s not what you know; it’s who you know.’”

“Yeah,” Borland said in a softer tone in deference to Mrs. Pemberton, “but Gus said building houses is more important than selling life insurance.”

Mrs. Pemberton nodded, “Yes but I’m sure he didn’t mean one is more important than the other. Both are important to a civilized society.”

“No,” Schmidt said, “I did mean it. Who can deny that building a house is more important than selling life insurance?”

“You see!” Borland snapped. “He said it again!”

Sweeny held up a fair hand. “Let’s allow the school teacher to tell us which of the two, either knowing human nature or having practical experience, is more important.”

Julie looked up at Sweeny and rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Tim, but you’re asking me to give an opinion that would offend either Mr. Borland or Mr. Schmidt.”

Sweeny pressed his lips together. He glanced at the two men. Both were glaring at him.

Mrs. Pemberton leaned forward and looked down the table at Julie. “I think we should drop the whole subject, don’t you, Julie?”

“We could do that, Mrs. Pemberton. But I haven’t heard anyone mention how important formal education is.”

“Well, why don’t you tell us, Missy?” Borland said.

Julie was about to speak when Moretti looked up. “It seems to me that a good education, next to faith in God, is just about everything.”

As one, the boarders turned their heads toward Moretti. All were surprised that the quiet man had chosen to speak.

“I don’t claim to be an expert,” Moretti continued, “but ever since I moved out West after the war, I’ve seen a lot of change. I’ve seen Abilene grow from a one-horse town to a thriving community. I was here when they laid the track for the railroad and I watched the first steam engine roll into town. I’ve seen the cattle drives come and go. I’ve seen the town change from a wild free-for-all to one that’s trying to shed its history of violence and immorality. I don’t see any reason for the change to stop.”

“So, what’s your point, barkeep?” Borland snorted.

“It seems to me that to look at the future of the West we must look at the present time in the East. One day the West will become civilized.”

Borland exhaled heavily from exasperation. “For a fella who don’t talk much you’re using a lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing about formal education.”

“You mean you haven’t caught on yet, Zeke? The point is who is going to build the West into that civilized society? It’s going to be the youngsters of today. Those who know how to read and write and cipher are going to be tomorrow’s leaders.”

“Here, here!” Julie blurted.

“Miss Weber,” Moretti continued, “I think we all owe teachers a debt of gratitude. Those of your students who make the right formal education their top priority give themselves the best possible chance of success.”

With the last few words Moretti humbly bowed his head so all anyone saw was his thick gray hair.

“Well!” Borland retorted. “That’s quite a speech from a common bartender. The question is what does such a man know of success? Seems to me that to speak of success with any authority a person must first be successful!”

“It sounds to me, Zeke,” Schmidt spoke up, “that you believe the only way a person can be successful is if he sells insurance for a living. Either that or you enjoy putting others down so you can feel superior.”

Borland’s eyes widened and then narrowed on the balding man with the potbelly. “You watch how you speak to me, Mister!”

Mrs. Pemberton raised her hand then slowly lowered it until it rested on the table. “Now, gentlemen—”

The tension in the room vanished when the boarders noticed Faye standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. She slowly looked from one boarder to the next. “People, I have children here and I would appreciate your remembering that. I will not have squabbling during meals. I can hear your bickering all the way into the kitchen!”

No one said a word.

“Now, if you’re finished, I’d appreciate if you would get up from the table so I can clear the dishes.”

XX.

The afternoon sun over Abilene had hidden its face behind gathering storm clouds. The wind had not yet swept into town as it would by evening but, still, the atmosphere moved as a single unstoppable wave from the southwest.

Julie opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch. Faye, sitting in the rocking chair, looked up when she heard the familiar squeak of the door. “Hello, my dear.”

“Good afternoon, Faye. Looks like we’re in for rain.”

“Yes, it’s that time of year when the weather seesaws between spring and summer. Would you like some tea? I made a fresh pitcher-full and I always bring extra glasses with me onto the porch.”

“Thank you. Tea sounds good.”

“Come and sit.”

Julie sat down at the table in a chair opposite Faye as the woman poured tea for her.

“This is my best part of the day. Just an hour or two of rest before starting the evening meal.”

“Faye, I apologize for what happened at breakfast this morning. There’s simply no excuse for our behavior. I’m sorry that we upset you, and that we set such a bad example for Andy and Amie.”

“That’s alright, Julie. I know it wasn’t intentional.”

“I’m very happy with the room, and you feed your boarders like we are royalty. You must be very tired by the end of the day.”

“Actually, no, my dear. I enjoy the work. And the income not only provides for my guests but provides security for me and the children. I feel most fortunate that everything worked out as well as it did.”

“Worked out?”

“Oh, of course, you don’t know. Less than a year ago, I lost my husband. He was murdered.”

“My goodness! I’m so sorry.”

“It was quite a bad time. But a fine gentleman, Parson Sam Blane, split the reward money with me. That money along with what I got from selling the farm gave me enough to buy this place and have it fixed up a bit.”

“The reward money?”

“A couple of saddle tramps killed my husband. Sam shot one in self-defense and turned the other over to Marshal Hickok. There was a fair amount of reward money for each one of them. Sam said he felt it only right that I should have half the money. Then he turned around and gave most of what was left to the church. The elders added Sam’s contribution to what they had on hand to begin construction of a new church building.”

“My! The Parson sounds like a generous man.”

“He’s a wonderful man, Julie.”

Something in Faye’s tone made Julie turn her head and look at Faye. “Sounds like you have feelings for Parson Blane.”

“Oh, I don’t know how he feels. But to be honest I’ve always felt I have a lot to offer.”

Julie glanced at the Bible sitting on the table. She remembered the conversation she had had with Faye on the day she arrived at the boarding house. “Faye, is that why you read the Bible…because the man you love is a preacher?”

“He told me once he could never be with a woman who wasn’t a Christian.”

“I see. Faye, can I be honest with you?”

“Yes, of course, my dear.”

“No one can become a believer for the purpose of pleasing someone else. Faith in God is personal―just between you and Him―and it must be genuine. You told me you were struggling with your faith. I’m guessing your motivation to be a Christian is based on your desire to have a relationship with Parson Blane. If I’m wrong please say so.”

Faye averted her gaze down and away. “I never thought about it that way.”

“Faye, may I say something else? But I don’t want to offend you in any way.”

“Yes, of course, my dear, please be frank.”

“A right relationship with Christ is more important than any relationship you can have with a man. If you sense a yearning within you, it is for Christ. Once that is fulfilled the other things will be added. Go on without it being fulfilled and it won’t matter whether you have a relationship with Parson Blane or any other man. You will still feel the yearning.”

Faye did not look up.

“Hey there!” The voice came from the vicinity of the front gate.

Julie turned and saw Charli Benton leading two saddled horses. One animal was a bay, the other a beautiful palomino.

Faye glanced up at Charli Benton and the horses. “Go ahead, my dear.” She turned to Julie who had stood up. “I think you just got yourself a horse.”

“Oh, it couldn’t be!”

“Run along and try not to be late for dinner.”

Julie rushed to the edge of the porch steps. “Yes, of course…‛late for dinner.’”

Faye chuckled.

XXI.

“Ever since Ma died, my old man ain’t been good for much. But one thing we do on the ranch is raise good horseflesh. Which one ya want?”

“Oh, Charli. I’m overwhelmed! Which of the two is yours?”

“I didn’t bring mine. Mine could outrun either of these two by a mile. But he’s kinda got a wild streak too that I like. These two are a different breed. Sturdy, strong and intelligent, but gentle nature. I trained them both so they know what to do and they’re quick about it. So which one ya want?”

“Charli, I don’t think I could afford to buy a horse right now.”

“Heck, Julie. You’re not buying one. I’m giving ya one!”

“Oh Charli. It’s too much.”

“It ain’t nothin’ of the sort. All ya gotta do is promise to take care of it. We’ll keep it at the ranch for ya when ya ain’t got it in the corral out back of the boarding house. Now will ya please pick one? I’m gettin’ tired of standing here.”

Julie stepped back and viewed the two animals. Could she really bring herself to accept such an overwhelming gift? The bay, of course, was a beautiful animal. But Julie simply could not take her eyes off the palomino. “It’s this one, Charli.” She stepped forward and rubbed the horse’s neck. She felt tears come to her eyes.

“Well that’s the one I figgered you’d pick, being a city-slicker and all. I’d never be caught dead on a horse so flashy. On the trail they could see ya comin’ a mile away.”

Julie laughed. “Oh, Charli!”

“What? It’s true!”

“My dear, I wouldn’t care if they could see me coming from a hundred miles away!” Julie turned square to Charli and placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “How can I ever thank you enough? I promise you. I will take good care of—” Julie took a step back. “What’s her name? Is it a ‘her’?”

“Yes, Julie, it’s a mare. The bay’s a gelding. As a rule we don’t name our horses. If you want a name for her, you’ll have to pick one.”

“Oh, let’s see. It will have to be a very special name. How about: Amazing Grace?”

“That’s an odd name for a horse.”

“We could call her Grace, for short.”

“Well, it’s your horse. You can call her whatever you want.”

“Then Grace it is! Charli, will you teach me all about her?”

“Sure, Julie, I’ll teach ya everything, a little at a time. When I get done with ya, you’ll be the best horsewoman in the county. Next to me, of course.”

“Thank you, Charli. Thank you very, very much.” Julie drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Then she turned back to Grace. “Okay, now I do know that one gets on from the left side.”

“Aw man. This is gonna be tougher than I thought. Well, at least, you’re wearing britches and not a dress!”

XXII.

When Julie opened the door to the school building and stepped inside, she stood silent for several moments. The dingy room smelled of mold and rotten wood. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. The outside light struggled to shine through filthy, yellow windows. The student desks were old and some were broken. The blackboard was faded and cracked. There was not a single book on the shelves.

She walked to the small teacher’s desk at the front of the room and sat down. Charli followed her and sat on the desk itself.

Julie cupped her face in her hands and began to cry.

Charli scooted off the desk and stood up. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Charli. Look at it.”

“At what?”

“At this room!”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s a shambles. How do people expect children to study and learn in such filth and disrepair?”

Charli looked around the room as if looking through new eyes. “Well, I guess it could stand some cleanin’. And ya kinda gotta be careful not to step in the holes in the floor. Other than that…what?”

“I’ll never be ready to start the school on Monday.”

“Why, heck, Julie. We got the whole weekend to clean it up.”

“We could work on this place for a month and it still wouldn’t be ready.”

“A month!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Charli. If you’re willing to help, I suppose we could wash the place down. That might take care of the smell. But fixing the floor and replacing the blackboard and repairing the desks. How are we going to do that?”

Charli thought for a moment. “Well, ya know, there’s a lot of people working on the new church building. A couple of right-fine carpenters, too. They might be willing to fix up the floor and hammer some nails into the broken desks.”

“That would be good for a start. But I have a meeting with Mayor Little. He’s the president of the school board and the one who hired me. Maybe he’ll help us.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 5)

2008-06-03T14:30:00.000-04:00

XIV.

The last man in the posse heard only the gurgling of the water as his horse reached the middle of the stream. He did not see the puff of smoke from the rifle barrel rise as a tiny cloud from a low sturdy branch on one of many trees along the bank.

What happened in an instant played in his mind slowly and without comprehension of the fatal reality. At first, the high-pitched whirring sound was an irritation. His mind finally asked, ‘What is that?’ He had never heard such a sound and it was quickly growing closer and louder.

He had just glanced up when he heard a thud and felt pressure in his chest like someone poking him with a finger. When he looked down he saw his shirt torn open and covered with blood. Even now the dark red fluid spouted forth like a fountain. Something strange and white and jagged stuck out of his chest. As the day quickly turned to night, his last thought was that he was looking at part of his own breastbone.

The first man in the posse turned his head when the sound of the shot tumbled across the stream basin. Looking back he saw the man who had been shot fall off his horse into the water. Then he felt something bite him in the back of the neck. Another rumble roared across the stream. As he fell off the horse, he grabbed his throat with both hands until everything within him went limp.

Already Marshal Watson and Amos had drawn their rifles from the scabbards and had leapt to the ground. Placing a knee on the ground, Marshal Watson raised his rifle and fired again and again at the puffs of smoke from the trees on the opposite bank.

When the middle man in the posse heard the rifle fire and saw the leader splash into the water, he yanked on the reins in an effort to turn his horse. The horse reared suddenly and the man barely hung on. As the horse splashed down on all four hooves, the man pulled hard on the left rein to turn the horse’s head. Simultaneously, he felt a bullet penetrate his thigh and he screamed in terror.

Feeling spurs dug deep into his hide, the horse struggled against the current to reverse direction. Then suddenly the reins went limp and with the sound of another rifle shot he felt the weight of the man slide off the saddle.

As Marshal Watson fired in rapid succession at the trees across the stream, from the corner of his eye he watched the men of the posse fall one by one into the water until none was left in the saddle. In the span of less than a minute, the men in the stream had been slaughtered.

A shot rang out from the opposite bank and Marshal Watson saw a spatter of mud fly up in front of him. He took careful aim at the lingering puff of smoke from a tree on the far bank and fired. Then he quickly jacked the lever and pulled the trigger again. The hammer fell with a metallic click. He was out of ammunition.

In anger, he threw the rifle onto the ground and stood up. He yelled as loudly as he could, “Come on, you scoundrels!” He pointed at his nose. “Right here!”

Amos shouted, “Marshal, get down!”

Marshal Watson continued to stand defiantly.

Slowly, the sound of the rushing water crept into Marshal Watson’s consciousness. One minute, five of his men were there; the next minute they were dead and gone. Another minute passed. Then another. He began to realize the last shot had already been fired.

XV.

Marshal Watson pulled up the reins and the horse came to a halt. He dismounted and studied the ground. Then he crouched and placed a finger into the imprint of a horseshoe.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and only dim reflected rays lit the western sky. Marshal Watson stood up and glanced at Amos who sat in the saddle, his arms crossed and resting on the saddle horn.

“They’re still traveling north. I’d guess they’re a couple of hours ahead of us if they haven’t stopped for the night.”

Amos nodded. “What do you want to do?”

Marshal Watson slowly looked around. The light was fading rapidly. “We’d better set up camp.”

“Okay, Marshal.” Amos sat up in the saddle and began to dismount.

“Wait a minute, Amos.” The Marshal stood silently for a moment. “When I was a kid I used to go to a place near here. Would you mind if we rode a little further? I’d like to make camp there tonight.”

“Sure, Marshal. Whatever you say.”

Marshal Watson mounted his horse and led off. Amos followed. After a while, they began ascending a ridge. “Amos, at the top there’s a small grassy area that will make a good campsite. In the morning, we’ll have a beautiful view of the valley floor. I spent many nights up there when I was a youngster. I’ve always considered it a special place.”

“Sounds good to me, Marshal.”

At the top of the ridge, the two rode through a stand of trees. The night had come alive with the peculiar sounds of insects calling for mates. An owl hooted. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and a soft breeze caressed their faces. Before long, they came to the open grassy area.

Amos looked up at the night sky. He had never seen so many stars, each trying to out-twinkle the other. “This is a great place, Marshal!”

“This trail is the only way in, so I think we’ll be safe up here. Let’s gather some wood and make camp.”

An hour later, both men were sitting on their bedrolls near the fire. They had stripped the horses and had staked them in the grass between themselves and the tree line. The horses would alert them if anything approached, be it man or beast.

When coffee was ready, Amos stood up and poured a cup for the Marshal and one for himself. Marshal Watson had just finished cleaning his Winchester. He was loading it when Amos handed him the cup. “Thanks, Amos.”

“Careful, Marshal. It’s hot.”

When Marshal Watson had finished loading the rifle, he jacked a shell into the chamber. After gently lowering the hammer, he placed the rifle on a separate blanket within easy reach. He picked up the cup and sipped. “That’s good coffee, Amos.”

When Amos did not reply, the Marshal glanced up. Amos was reading a book. “Whatcha readin’?”

“It’s the Bible, Marshal.”

“Oh.” The Marshal took another sip of coffee and looked up at the countless stars against an endless sky of black velvet. “I guess if there is a God, he must be pretty smart and pretty big, if he made all that.”

Amos glanced over. He saw the Marshal gazing up at the sky and he looked up too. “I find it quite humbling. Don’t you?”

“Tell you the truth, Amos, I’ve never thought about it much. In my line of work, seems like I’m always seeing bad people causing bad things to happen.” He glanced down. “Like today, for example. Five good men murdered in cold blood. I don’t know how a God who is supposed to be good could let that happen.”

“That’s easy, Marshal: holy God; sinful man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when God created us, he gave us free will. Right from the beginning, we’ve been misusing that free will…each person trying to be his own god.”

“Seems like God made a mistake then, handing out all that free will.”

Amos chuckled. “No, Marshal. God is not at fault for the way we misuse our free will. We are to blame for our mistakes. God is love. He is pure and holy…and perfect. He gave us free will because he wanted a loving relationship with people who could truly love him back. He doesn’t force us to love him.”

“Seems like it would be a lot better if he did.”

Amos was silent for a moment. “I know you’re not married, Marshal. In fact, I’ve never seen you courting anyone. Seems like you always keep to yourself. You ever love a woman?”

“Me?” Marshal Watson glanced at the flickering yellow and blue flames. “I was in love once.”

“Did she love you back?”

After a moment, Marshal Watson nodded. “Yes, she loved me back.”

“Now, do you see? What kind of love would it have been had you somehow forced her to love you back?”

“I guess you’re right, Amos. It wouldn’t have been love at all.”

“That’s the way God is. He loves you and me with a love bigger than that sky up there. And he wants us to love him back. But we must do it with our free will. Otherwise it isn’t love at all.”

Marshal Watson raised the cup to his lips and sipped the coffee. After a few moments, he glanced up. Amos had returned to reading. “But how can you love something you can’t see?”

Amos placed a finger between the pages and closed the Bible. “That girl you loved…do you still love her?”

Marshal Watson nodded. “I’ll love her till the day I die.”

“What happened to her, Marshal?”

“I was young, Amos. I left my home town to make my way in the world. But it wasn’t my plan to leave her. I was going to go back for her…and I did. But too much time had passed. She had married another man.”

“But you still love her?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t see her anymore, yet you still love her. That’s because your love for her is in your heart. That’s the way it is with God. We carry our love for him in the heart. It’s just as real as the love you have for that girl. Except there’s one difference.”

“What’s that?”

“God will never let you down.”

“Oh…she wasn’t to blame, Amos. It was my fault. It was me who let her down…though I sure never meant to.”

“Whoever’s fault it was, Marshal, the point is your relationship ended. How can you trust something that doesn’t last? That’s the problem with everything in this world. Nothing and no one lasts forever. That’s the difference between a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and a relationship with anything created.”

“Are you saying not to have relationships with people because the relationships will not last?”

“No, I’m saying to start with the right relationship to God; that is, adhere to, trust in, and rely on the truth of his Word. Your personal relationship with Jesus Christ will last forever. Then you can have the right relationships with others, loving and serving them while they are present and appreciating God for the gift of having known them when they are gone.”

Marshal Watson glanced up. “Amos, let me be honest with you. I’ve never felt like I’m a good enough person to have a relationship with God.”

“No one is good enough, Marshal.”

“Well, how do you get it then?”

“It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes. You see, God loves us already. He loves us with perfect love. It’s so valuable it can’t be earned, or bought, or bargained for. So, to receive it you must accept it as a gift.”

Marshal Watson furrowed his brow.

Amos looked over. “That’s what I meant when I said it is ‘humbling.’ It’s like how you feel when someone gives you a gift. You didn’t earn it and there’s nothing you can repay. You just have to accept it and that makes you feel humble. At least, it does me anyway.”

“I think I know what you mean. I had a sheriff a while back give me that Winchester. I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing. He handed it to me and said it was a gift. I said I couldn’t take it, but he told me he wanted me to have it. I said I would only take it if he’d let me pay for it, but he said no. When I took it into my hands, I felt I had been given something I didn’t deserve.”

“Humble.”

“Yeah, I felt…humble.”

Marshal Watson was silent for several minutes. Amos returned to reading, turning slightly to better catch the light from the fire, which was slowly burning out.

“I always thought if there is a God that good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell.”

Amos closed the Bible and set it on the blanket next to him. The light had grown too dim for reading. “Man cannot save himself. Only God can save us. That’s because we can’t be good enough or do enough good things to pay the penalty for our sins.”

“The penalty for our sins?”

“Yes. The penalty for our sins is death and damnation.”

“Is that what the Bible says?”

“Yes, it is. But the good news is that God has already paid the penalty for everyone’s sins by sending his only Son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross.”

“Does that mean everyone is going to heaven?”

“Everyone who receives Christ as his personal Lord and Savior, yes.”

“But those who don’t?”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If you had rejected the rifle as a gift from that sheriff, would you have it now?”

“No.”

“That’s right. Same with those who reject Jesus Christ. They don’t have the gift of salvation.”

“So that’s why some go to hell.”

“Yes. You see, someone has to pay the penalty. You can pay it, or you can accept Jesus’ payment on your behalf.”

“If it’s that easy, seems like everyone would accept what Jesus did to pay for our sins.”

“Ah, but remember how we misuse our free will? We try to be our own god.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been doing that.”

“We all start out that way, Marshal. Think of how a baby must be taught to share. Each person worships himself, so to speak. But we sure miss out on a lot when we do. And without Christ as our Lord and Savior, we wind up in hell, paying the penalty for the wrong we’ve done.”

“Yeah, but how do you know all that is true? Sounds like a fairy tale.”

“When you are willing to accept the gift of salvation…I mean, truly ready to turn from your sins and turn instead to God, God will give you the faith to accept the truth. Then it becomes personal. Until then, it does sound foolish…especially to the so-called wise.”

“I don’t know, Amos. I think I’m a lost cause. I’ve always been the way I am. I’m too old to change now…and like I said, I’ve done too many bad things in my life.”

“God has more forgiveness than you have sins, Marshal. And the Bible says, ‘Today is the day of salvation.’ It’s only too late after you die. Then you begin paying that penalty we were talking about.”

“You’re talking about going to hell again, aren’t you.”

“Yes, I am. Just like it would violate your sense of justice to let those outlaws go free; God, who is perfect justice, will exact punishment. And it lasts forever.”

“So that’s why Jesus died? To pay the penalty for me?”

“That’s right, Marshal. Believe that, and God gives you new life that restores the relationship Mankind had with God in the very beginning. And now it’s a personal relationship between you and Him. Once he’s truly your Father, you will naturally want to please him by being as good as you can be. In that situation, you’re not trying to save yourself by being good, because you’re already saved. Instead you’re being good because you love and appreciate God as the perfect Father he is to you. That’s the difference between Christianity and every other religion. All other religions and all philosophies devised by men teach that you must do something, like being good, to be saved.

“Also, when you are saved the Holy Spirit takes up residence in your heart. Jesus called the Holy Spirit the ‘Comforter.’ The Holy Spirit not only provides solace, he guides the believer into all truth. It’s hard to do evil when the Holy Spirit is always exerting subtle, but divine, pressure to obey God’s Word.”

“But men wrote the Bible, Amos, not God.”

“Men wrote it down, but God is the author. God inspired men to write it down because we can understand what other men say. God wanted us to have a written record of his laws and promises. But he also made sure the men didn’t make any mistakes when they wrote down his Word. That way we can trust it.”

“So everything in the Bible is true?”

“Absolutely. His Word has the power to save the lost and it comforts those who already believe. His Spirit is alive in the passages of the Bible.”

“So that’s why you read it so much?”

“Here. Let me show you. Hand me that stick you were using earlier for the fire.”

Marshal Watson handed the stick to Amos.

Amos stuck the stick into the fire and stirred up the coals. The flames blazed up with a whoosh. “That’s what reading the Bible does, Marshal. It stokes the fire of faith inside our hearts and it reminds us how much God loves us.”

Marshal Watson was silent for several minutes.

“I don’t know, Amos. I think the church is full of a bunch of hypocrites.”

“Why are you worried about what’s in the hearts of others? Where you’re concerned, God looks only at what is in your heart. The individual Christian knows he is a believer. And the Lord knows those who are his. As for hypocrites in church, seems like the best place they could be. There’s always the chance that good Gospel preachin’ will rub off on them.”

Marshal Watson smiled. “Well, it’s something to think about. Thanks for explaining it.”

“My pleasure, Marshal.”

The two fell silent for several minutes. The glow of hot coals reflected off their faces as each man was absorbed in his own thoughts. Marshal Watson lifted the coffee cup to his lips. The cup was empty. “I think I’m gonna turn in. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Marshal Watson lay back on the bedroll. For a long time he stared at the night sky. Then he pulled the blanket up to his chin, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes.

XVI.

Amos felt someone vigorously shake him. Startled, he opened his eyes.

“Amos…Amos! I want to accept Jesus!”

Amos drew in a long breath. Then he sat up. The sky was still dark and the fire had completely burned out. Still, the starlight allowed Amos to see Marshal Watson clearly.

“I want the new life, Amos. What do I do?”

“You’re telling me, Marshal. What you do is tell God.”

Marshal Watson sat back. “That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all you have to do. God will do the rest.”

“But I’ve never talked to God before!”

“That’s okay, Marshal. Do the best you can. It’s not so much the words. It’s what’s in your heart.” Amos leaned back on his elbow, rubbed his face, and yawned.

“Amos, will you help me?”

Amos sat up. “Sure, Marshal, I’ll help. Let’s bow our heads. Now repeat after me: Heavenly Father, I am sorry for all my sins. Forgive me and wash me clean. I accept your Son, Jesus Christ, as my Lord and Savior, and I believe in my heart that you raised him from the dead. Thank you, Father, that you have saved me. Amen.”

XVII.

Brighter than a sparkling diamond, the first beam of light rose above the horizon and seemed to momentarily sit on the line where the land meets the sky. Then the second and third beams popped above the horizon, followed by four more, then sixteen, then two hundred and fifty-six, and so forth.

After a few minutes, Amos felt the slightest warmth touch his cheek. The black of the inside of his eyelids began to turn red. He opened his eyes and lay still for several moments. He heard a horse cropping grass and birds chirping in the trees beyond.

He sat up and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he turned and glanced at Marshal Watson who was still asleep.

Amos turned over onto his hands and knees and then sat back on his legs. He took the coffee pot from the fireplace and poured it out. Then he filled the pot with water from his canteen and added fresh coffee grounds.

He started a fire with dry kindling and small dead branches. Before long the coffee was boiling happily over the flames.

He stood up and stretched. Then he walked over and checked on the horses. He talked softly and patted each of them affectionately on the neck.

The sun had become a burning globe, playing peek-a-boo through the stand of trees. He walked back to the fire and checked the coffee. Just a bit longer.

He rolled up his blankets and tied them to the back of his saddle that lay a few paces from the fire.

Amos recalled the night before and the long talk he had had with the Marshal. Then he remembered that the Marshal had awakened him in the middle of the night. Amos closed his eyes and said a special “thank you” to his heavenly Father who long ago had made his whole life worth living. Now, at last, the Marshal too would experience the Lord’s joy and peace.

He knelt down and poured himself a cup of the freshly-brewed coffee. Gingerly, he sipped the hot liquid. There was nothing quite like the first sip of good coffee early in the morning.

“Marshal, you plan on sleeping all day?”

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 4)

2008-06-03T14:18:00.000-04:00

The youthful Gary Blanchard felt his heart sink. Instantly, he knew the man sticking the gun in his back could only want one thing: the bank’s money. Also he surmised that what was in front of him, the fire at the livery stable, was cunningly connected to what was behind him, the gun in his back.

As Blanchard began to raise his arms in a gesture of surrender, a gravelly voice behind him said, “Keep your arms down. Turn and walk inside.”

When he turned, he saw the man with the gun. The man wore an evil smile that revealed yellow teeth in a crooked mouth nestled within thick black facial hair. Another man, six-shooter in hand, stood alongside the first.

Blanchard thought quickly. Mr. Drake, the bank president, was in the back office with the door closed. Blanchard also thought of the pistol kept on a shelf below the teller’s window. But he would have little chance to catch the thieves off-guard. He concluded his best course of action was to cooperate fully, to sacrifice the bank’s money, and to hope for the best.

After the trio entered the bank, the thieves forced Blanchard to lead the way into the area behind the teller windows where the safe was located.

“Open it,” the first thief said.

“I don’t know the combination.”

Meanwhile the second thief had already located the cash drawer at the teller’s window and was removing the loot.

Unbeknownst to all three men, Ken Drake, the bank president, had already received an urgent knock at the back door. Deputy Vince Evans had rushed in to inform Drake of the raging fire at the livery stable.

Deputy Evans watched impatiently as Drake scurried about the office in preparation to lock up the bank.

When the numerous details in his office had been attended to, with key ring in hand, Drake rushed out of the office to inform Blanchard of the bank’s closing.

The thief at the cash drawer had just stuffed the money into his vest pocket when the office door opened suddenly. Startled, the thief pointed and fired. Drake doubled over and with a loud groan fell to the floor.

Deputy Evans did not hesitate. He drew his weapon and rushed to a point where he had line-of-sight on the thief through the doorway. The shot from his pistol unerringly found its mark, and the thief crashed back against the counter.

The thief behind Blanchard dove onto the floor and aimed his pistol through the doorway from where the shot had come. When he fired, Blanchard saw flame spew from the gun barrel and he heard the Deputy’s shriek of death.

Catapulted by a surge of adrenaline, Blanchard raced for the pistol beneath the teller’s window. He grabbed the weapon and fired at the thief on the floor. Then everything went blank!

Two more thieves had entered the bank and the bullet from one thief’s gun had penetrated the back of Blanchard’s head.

On a day that had begun with such seeming promise, the youthful Gary Blanchard had met a sudden ignominious death.

XI.

Frank Stayton[1] was horrified. Two of his sons lay on the floor of the bank. “Check on them. Quick!”

Travis, Frank Stayton’s eldest son, hurried around the counter. Zack, who had been shot by Blanchard, lay on the floor, moaning.

Travis grabbed the other son, Jarrett, who lay on his face near the teller window. When Travis rolled him over, he knew his brother was dead. He looked up at Frank Stayton who had followed him around the counter.

“Jarrett’s dead, Pa.”

“Pick him up and carry him out front. I’ll tend to Zack.”

When Frank Stayton bent over Zack, the boy was holding his side tightly with both hands. “Come on, son. Let’s get you out of here.” He grabbed the boy by the arm and helped him to his feet.

The two made their way out of the bank. With the help of Emmett, who had been guarding the horses, Travis had draped and tied Jarrett’s body over Jarrett’s horse. Frank Stayton helped Zack to his horse and steadied him as the boy crawled onto the saddle. “Can you ride?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Let’s go!”

A woman stood in the street near the bank entrance. She had been watching the livery burn when she heard the shots from inside the bank. Shortly afterwards, she saw the Staytons exit the building. One man was dead and another was wounded. Realizing she was witnessing a bank robbery, she screamed, “Hey! Stop!”

Emmett yelled, “Shut up, lady!”

In panic she began running toward the livery where the townspeople had formed a bucket brigade in an effort to extinguish the fire. “The bank’s been robbed!” She waved her arms in the air. “The bank’s been robbed!”

Emmett drew his gun and took careful aim. The bullet ripped through the woman’s back at an angle just below the left shoulder blade and pierced her heart. She spun half around and collapsed to the ground.

“Let’s go!” Emmett yelled. He stepped into the stirrup and mounted his horse. Already Frank Stayton and the wounded Zack had spurred their horses and were riding in the opposite direction of the fire. Travis was close behind, leading Jarrett’s horse with the dead man strapped across the saddle.

Emmett spurred his horse and the animal bolted. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a few men running toward the woman lying in the street. Twisting in the saddle, he fired several shots. One man went down. Then he turned forward and spurred the animal again. “That’ll hold ‘em.”

XII.

Little Joey was the youngest of the Stayton brothers. He was a lanky young man of fourteen. His dark brown eyes were set deep in an angular face that had been darkly tanned by the sun. The faintest moustache appeared above his upper lip, and a thin tuft of hair clung to his dimpled chin.

The cool water of the stream felt good under the late morning sun. Already he had rekindled the fire from the night before. He had also put on coffee and a pot of beans. Then he had left his boots on the bank and had rolled up his pants. Now, as the boy waded to and fro in the shallows, he complained aloud, “I’m old enough to go along when Pa robs some hick-town bank. I don’t know why I’m always the one stuck with tending camp. I ought to run away like Gil did.”

Thinking of his older brother, Gil, Little Joey crouched and drew the six-shooter from his holster. He fired at a rock sticking out of the water near the bank. He smirked when he saw a chunk of the rock fly off and fine debris explode into the air. The sound of the shot and the ricochet off the rock sent thunderous vibrations echoing back and forth between the trees that bordered the stream.

Little Joey had never known Gil very well, and the lack of a close relationship was a source of sadness. Gil left home when Little Joey was still a youngster but Little Joey often heard his Pa and his brothers talk of Gil’s reputation as a gunfighter.

Gil visited the family at their ranch near El Paso when Pearl Stayton, the boys’ mother, had become ill and died. After the funeral, Gil left again and soon the family lost track of his whereabouts. Periodically, the family heard rumors that Gil had killed another man. Once, the news came from Santa Fe. A while later, from Denver. No one was ever sure where Gil Stayton would turn up next.

During Gil’s visit to the ranch, Little Joey begged his brother to demonstrate his prowess with a six-shooter. Gil had set up a few tin cans on a fence rail. Even as a youngster, Little Joey knew he was seeing something satanic when Gil drew and fired. Almost simultaneously, the cans leapt from the rail and the blasts of the individual shots were indistinguishable. When Gil had re-holstered his gun, he turned to Little Joey and said, “Tin cans don’t shoot back. That’s the difference between shooting cans and facing down another man.” He winked. “Better to shoot ‘em in the back.”

After his mother died, Little Joey noticed a significant change in his father. Frank Stayton had become listless and extremely depressed. When he stopped working on the ranch, Little Joey’s brothers quickly lost interest too. Before long, the ranch fell into disrepair from neglect.

When the need for money grew intolerable, Pa and a few of his brothers robbed a bank. From then on, the family was always in trouble with the law.

Shortly after that first bank robbery, the family abandoned the ranch. They began wandering as nomads, using their wits to live off the land and to “outsmart people with more money.” Frequent crossings of the Mexican border kept them from capture by the law. Some people called what the Staytons did stealing, but Little Joey knew it was simply a matter of survival. And if a few people got killed, well, they probably deserved it. But he did not waste time thinking about those things.

When his Pa received news of the deaths of Wade and Clem, the entire clan mounted up and began riding north. They were after someone called Parson Sam Blane in Abilene, Kansas.

Little Joey knew the importance of paying back crimes against the family. He had learned the lesson when his brother, Toby, had been killed by a man driving a wagon. Shortly afterwards, Emmett had slit the man’s throat and had received praise from his Pa and brothers. Little Joey knew that, one day, he would make Pa and his brothers proud of him. Then they would praise him too!

The pack horse whinnied. Little Joey turned and looked in the direction of the town. In the distance, he saw riders. That would be Pa and his brothers.

He stepped out of the water and sat down and pulled on his boots. By the time he stood up, the riders had drawn closer and he could see them clearly. Something was wrong. A body was draped over one of the horses!

Within a few minutes, the men rode into camp on heavily lathered animals. Little Joey took the reins of the horses as the men dismounted. Now he could see it was Jarrett who had been killed.

After dismounting, Frank Stayton hurried to the side of Zack’s horse and helped the slumping boy from the saddle.

Little Joey watched as his father sat Zack at the base of a tree and leaned him against the trunk. “What happened?”

No one answered.

Little Joey turned and looked at Jarrett’s lifeless body. Horror struck him when he saw Jarrett’s wide staring eyes, glazed over with the milky slime of death.

Travis came up behind him. “Cool down the horses then let them drink.” He brushed past the lad and untied Jarrett’s body. Then he pulled Jarrett’s legs. When the body slid off the saddle, Travis caught Jarrett under the arms and lowered him to the ground. Noticing Little Joey had not moved, Travis glanced up and saw the alarm in the boy’s eyes. “Get going!”

Little Joey turned and began walking the horses. After he let the horses drink, he tied them to a couple of trees. Then he sat down at the campfire. Emmett was thoroughly engrossed in a pan of beans and Travis sat cross-legged, sipping coffee from a tin cup.

When Frank Stayton walked over and sat down, Travis asked, “How is Zack?”

“Only a flesh wound but he’s lost some blood. He won’t be able to ride for a while.”

“We can’t stay here.” Emmett spoke with a mouthful of beans. “The fire we started at the livery will only hold that townsfolk a little longer.” As he talked, a half-eaten bean jetted out of his mouth and landed on the ground. “They’ll come after us. And we left an easy trail.” He scooped another heaping spoonful of beans into his mouth.

“Little Joey,” Frank Stayton said, “shimmy up that there tree and set yourself on that big branch.” He looked up at the branch as if pointing to it with his nose. “You keep watch for a posse. I don’t know how much time we got. We killed a couple of folks back there.”

“More than a couple,” Emmett said. A few beans spilled out of his mouth onto his beard. “I got me that loud-mouthed woman and maybe a fella. Caught him dead on the run from atop my horse.”

Frank Stayton poured himself coffee. “Zack said he got him the deputy that shot Jarrett. The townsfolk will form a posse and they’ll be comin’ as soon as they can.”

Travis threw a small wad of dollar bills on the ground in front of the group. “I took this off Jarrett’s body. It’s all him and Zack got from the bank.”

“How much is it?” Emmett asked.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Frank Stayton picked up the money and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “My boy was worth more than that.”

“What are we gonna do about Zack if he can’t ride?” Travis asked.

Emmett threw down an empty pan and leaned back with both hands on his stomach. “Zack’s gonna have to ride, that’s all.” He stood up. “We best get to burying Jarrett.”

Frank Stayton looked up. “No, we’re not burying him here in plain sight. I don’t want no chance of the posse diggin’ him up.”

“We can’t take him with us. He’ll slow us down.”

“I said not here!”

Emmett sat back down. “Okay Pa. You’re the boss. You don’t have to git so riled up about it.”

“Just sit there and shut up!”

After several minutes, Frank Stayton leaned forward and tossed the remaining coffee in his cup onto the fire. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He picked up a stick and began drawing on the ground. When he was done, he stood up and rubbed out the drawing with the sole of his boot. “Let’s get movin’.”

They had just broken camp when Little Joey sat up on the branch. “Here they come!”

Frank Stayton looked up. “How many?”

“Five, six…seven of them!”

“Okay, let’s go!”

XIII.

Under any other circumstances, Marshal Bill Watson would not have been leading the posse. His gray hair peeked from beneath his hat and heavy lines creased his face. He felt the pain of arthritis in his back with every stride of the horse.

In about a month, he had planned to turn over his duties as Marshal to Deputy Vince Evans. But now his deputy was dead. Marshal Watson was left as the town’s only lawman, and the responsibility for catching the outlaws had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Even so, he knew his health was failing.

Although he had told no one, within the past week he had experienced what he knew could only have been a heart attack. The pressure in his arm and chest had seized him suddenly, and for a long moment he could hardly breathe. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the physical anguish left him. But the solemn warning had remained.

When he and the posse arrived at the stream, he saw the remains of the Stayton camp. He dismounted along with several others.

He carefully studied the tracks and everything about the site. “They spent the night here and must have started for town at first light. There’s blood over by that tree, so one of them is wounded. They entered the stream here.” He turned to a man in the group. “Amos, head over to the other side and see if there are tracks where they rode out. If not, we’ll have to split up and try to pick up their trail either up or down stream.”

Amos mounted his horse and crossed the swollen stream. In the middle, the water rose almost to his saddle. When he rode up onto the opposite bank, he clearly saw the tracks of the Staytons’ horses.

He waved to the Marshal and then pointed at the tracks.

Marshal Watson ordered, “Okay, they crossed over. Mount up.”

The crossing was slow-going. When they finally reached the other side, Marshal Watson followed the tracks, leading the men west at a fast gallop. They paralleled the stream for about a quarter mile. Then the tracks turned, showing the Staytons had entered the stream again.

Pulling up at the edge of the water, Marshal Watson slowly scanned the opposite bank. His mind was on the possibility of an ambush. If the posse were caught in the open while crossing the stream, they would have little chance to escape. “Amos, see if they crossed all the way over.”

Again, Amos crossed the stream and found the tracks. When he waved to the Marshal, one of the men yelled, “Okay, let’s go.”

Marshall Watson held up his hand. “Wait a minute. I don’t like this. We’ll cross over one at a time. I’ll go first.”

One of the men whined, “We’re wasting time, Marshal.”

Marshal Watson led his horse into the water. “Let’s do it my way.”

When everyone had crossed the stream, one of the men complained, “Marshal, we’re letting them get away! We should have crossed together. Look at the time we lost!”

Marshal Watson did not reply. He turned his horse and began following the Staytons’ tracks. The others fell in behind. After another quarter mile the tracks turned, showing the Staytons once again had entered the stream.

Now Marshal Watson was extremely apprehensive. What were the outlaws up to? He called to Amos. “Cross over and check for their tracks.”

A man in the posse shouted, “We ain’t got time for this, Marshal! We know those outlaws keep crossing the stream to slow us down. Each time they cross they gain ground on us. We’re never going to catch them before dark!” He turned to the others, “Come on. Let’s go!”

Several of the men spurred their horses and began crossing the stream.

“You men stop!” Marshal Watson ordered.

The men, however, continued to ride.

Amos and another man stayed with the Marshal and watched the men cross. When the men had safely crossed the stream they waved and pointed at the tracks. The other man turned to the Marshal. “They’re right, Marshal. If we’re ever going to catch them, we have to cross together. Otherwise we lose too much time.” He spurred his horse and headed across the stream.

Marshal Watson watched the man cross the stream. “I’ve completely lost control.”

“You still got me, Marshal,” Amos said. “I’m with you all the way.”

Marshal Watson glanced at Amos. “Thanks.” His lips curled in a quick smile. “Okay. Let’s cross over.”

Once they arrived on the opposite bank, both men spurred their horses. Riding at full speed Marshal Watson and Amos had almost caught up to the others when the Staytons’ tracks turned again. Marshal Watson watched as the posse did not hesitate at all. As a group, they rushed into the stream.

Marshal Watson and Amos pulled up and stopped on the water’s edge. Watching the riders, bunched up in the middle of the stream, Marshal Watson grumbled, “You fools!”

TO BE CONTINUED

Stayton Clan Profile

1 – Frank Stayton: The patriarch and the meanest of the clan. He is committed to retribution for the death of any of his sons:

“The loss of a son creates a hole in my heart that can only be filled by the knowledge that I repaid the injustice with the death of the perpetrator.”

2 – Travis Stayton: Eldest son and Frank’s right-hand man. His job revolves around the care of the clan. He frequently gives orders to the other sons, who varyingly begrudge or freely assent to, but in all cases carry out, the orders. Travis is a bit cautious contrasted against the general nature of a ruthless, sometimes reckless, clan, which believes itself invulnerable. Of all the sons, he is the only one from whom Frank Stayton will sometimes allow debate and to whom, in rare cases, he may defer.

3 – Emmett Stayton: Emmett is the enforcer of the clan, ensuring that the other sons stay in line. He’s short and stocky, but he is the most capable physically. He is also the most ruthless of the sons.

4 – Gil Stayton: A renowned professional gunfighter who normally travels alone. He is the best of the clan with weapons. He is the fastest draw of not only the clan but of most men in the west. He travels extensively and only rarely takes part in clan business.

5 – Jarrett Stayton: Killed during the bank robbery in Denton, TX.

6 – Miles Stayton: Appears later in story.

7 – Zack Stayton: Wounded during the bank robbery in Denton, TX.

8 – Little Joey Stayton: Youngest of the Stayton boys.

9 – Wade Caldwell: Executed by hanging after conviction at trial.

10 – Clem Caldwell: Killed by Blane in self-defense.

11 – Toby Stayton: Killed in a wagon accident.

12 – Al Stayton: Killed for the reward money by Royce Lee, a bounty hunter.

[1] Stayton Clan Profile is included at end of this entry.

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 3)

2008-06-03T14:03:00.001-04:00

VII.

The stagecoach rolled to a stop, belching a small volcano’s eruption of dust high into the air which then cascaded in a dirty mist onto the numerous onlookers.

Julie Weber was the first to disembark. As she placed her foot onto the step, a man wearing a badge reached out his hand, and she took it to steady her descent.

“Welcome to Abilene,” the man said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Marshal Hickok. I’m guessing you’re Miss Weber, the new school teacher.”

Julie nodded. “That’s right.”

“Come with me, Miss Weber. Let’s get through this crowd.”

Wriggling through the throng, Julie followed Hickok until they stepped up onto the sidewalk. Several men in the crowd caught the pieces of luggage that the driver threw from the top of the coach. “Those are mine,” she said, pointing.

When all the baggage had been unloaded, the driver yelled to Hickok, “Marshal, can I talk to you a minute?”

Hickok turned to Julie. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Hickok stepped off the sidewalk and through the crowd to the side of the coach where the driver had climbed down and stood on the street.

Julie took in the town. This was the raw West, and everything showed it: the dusty street, the austere wooden buildings, and the bizarre excitement of townspeople over the arrival of a stagecoach.

She glanced at a dusty young man sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. He was staring ahead blankly, his mind seemingly far from the hubbub of the crowd. His scraggly hair fell in dirty strands from beneath an oversized cowboy hat.

The other passengers had already disembarked, and the crowd had broken into smaller groups, gathering around the newly-arrived travelers. After a time, however, the crowd began to disperse. Splintering into threesomes, couples, and individuals, they headed off in various directions.

The driver of the stagecoach climbed up and once again took his seat. He snapped the reins and the coach jerked

ahead, kicking up a dust cloud that relentlessly pursued the vehicle even as the coach turned a corner and disappeared.

Julie watched the few men left standing in the street. Marshal Hickok was nowhere in sight. As long minutes passed, she told herself to remain patient. Surely the Marshal had not forgotten her. Or had he? Perhaps he had been called away on urgent business.

Julie’s trip had been long and hard. She was eager to get settled, to wash up, and to change into more comfortable clothes. Furthermore, she felt irritated she had traveled by stagecoach in the first place! The hardship of the journey was a lesson she would not soon forget. ‘In the future, I travel only by train!’

Before long, even the few men in the street had meandered off. Now she was completely alone with her three suitcases and a hat box.

Julie shifted her weight onto one leg and placed her hand on her hip. Unconsciously, she began tapping the ball of her foot on the wooden-plank sidewalk. She lowered her eyelids and scanned the entire length of the street, first left then right.

Finally she drew a deep breath in through her nose and then exhaled through her mouth. ‘Okay, that’s it. I don’t care if he comes back or not!’

She glanced around. The only other living entity she saw was the dusty young man sitting on the sidewalk edge.

“Excuse me, young man.”

She waited a moment. The young man held a small tree branch that he struck on the street in an erratic rhythm that told Julie his mind was still far adrift.

“Excuse me, young man.” Her tone was sharp.

She saw the young man turn his head slightly, as if the firmness of her voice had finally penetrated the fog of an aimless mind. He turned and looked at her. His blank expression told her he had heard the words but he had not applied them to himself. He turned his head even further to see whether or not someone else was present.

Julie stood as patiently as she could until the young man finally asked, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes I’m talking to you.”

The young man sat erect. Then, like the uncoiling of a compressed spring, he leapt up onto the sidewalk. He took off his hat and held it by the brim at his waist. In a rich alto voice, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Julie’s jaw dropped. “Why, you’re a girl!”

“I’m Charli Benton, ma’am. And I can ride and shoot better than any boy around. And that’s with a pistol or a rifle. Makes no nevermind to me!” The girl put her hat back on and drew the six-shooter from her holster. Effortlessly, she twirled it vertically and then horizontally. In a quick circular motion she brought her arm back to her side and twirled the gun into the holster.

Not knowing quite what to think, Julie finally said, “That’s very impressive.”

“Aw, that ain’t nothing.”

“Forgive me for calling you a young man.”

“Aw, I wish I was a boy. Nobody pays attention to no girl.”

Julie blinked several times. She was about to speak when Charli stepped forward.

“You need help with these?” Without waiting for Julie to answer, Charli picked up two of the suitcases. “Where ya staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there’s only two choices. The Merchant’s. It’s nice. But the better deal is Spencer’s Boarding House. Nothing fancy, but old lady Spencer keeps the place clean, and it comes with three squares a day. It costs about half as much.”

“Okay, I’ll take the boarding house.”

“You won’t regret it, ma’am.”

“Call me Julie. I’m Julie Weber. I’m going to teach school here.”

“Oh, so you’re the new teacher. Yeah, old lady Somerset quit almost a month ago.”

“She quit?”

“Quit; retired. Same thing.”

“What have the school children been doing for the past month without a teacher?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean they haven’t been attending school?”

“Nah. Kids around here only attend school anyway ‘cause their folks want them out of their hair. Till they get old enough to do chores.”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that!”

“Got big ideas, huh? Well, you’ll see how it is. Right now, let’s get you over to old lady Spencer’s.”

As Julie and Charli crossed the street, they passed an elderly man crossing in the opposite direction.

He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss. Hello Charli.”

Charli said, “Hello Mr. Barnes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Charli muttered, “That’s old man Barnes. He runs the stage depot. He’s a son-of-a-bitch. Why the other day—”

Julie stopped abruptly. “Now wait just a minute, young lady! As a teacher, I can stand your double negatives until you’re taught, or until you choose to speak, proper English. As a woman, I’m appalled at the disrespect you show your own womanhood. But as a Christian, I absolutely will not tolerate disrespect for God with your profanity! Do you understand?”

In a reflex reaction, Charli dropped a suitcase and raised her arm and shoulder as if fending off one of many violent blows of the past.

Witnessing the girl’s involuntary display of vulnerability, Julie was filled with compassion. Before she could speak, however, Charli tilted her head and opened her eyes, glaring at Julie. The girl hesitated only a moment before she threw the other suitcase to the ground. Then she began to stomp off.

“Wait. Don’t go.”

The girl’s walk evolved into her characteristic swagger that propelled her along without the slightest hesitation.

Julie’s heart felt the fall of each of Charli’s steps as she watched Charli walk away. She had offended the girl and she felt stinging remorse. But there was something more. Feeling herself choke up, finally she said, “Charli, I need a friend.”

Charli turned her head, listening with an ear over her shoulder. After a few more steps, she stopped and closed her eyes. Julie’s words had settled on a sensitive part of her heart that she had ignored for too long. When she turned around, she looked Julie in the eye. “You want to be my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Then take back what you said.”

“I can’t, Charli.”

“Why not?”

“Because friends tell each other the truth. But I take back the way I said it…and I take back my self-righteous attitude. I had no right to judge you.”

Charli stood perfectly still, pondering the strange woman before her. She had never heard anyone speak the way this woman spoke. Although she could not claim she understood everything the woman said, the woman’s tone and facial expression appeared unquestionably genuine. The woman had touched an emotionally tender part of her core. Still, she was wary of the possibility of another tongue-lashing. “I don’t let nobody boss me around.”

“Charli, I propose an agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“I’ll agree never to talk down to you again. In exchange, I would like you to agree to refrain from profanity.”

“You mean stop cussin’?”

“Yes.”

Charli thought for several moments. Deep within, she knew she too needed a friend: someone with whom she could share confused feelings that churned inside a troubled heart; someone she could trust. “I spose I could stop cussin’.”

Julie stepped forward and held out her hand. “Friends?”

Charli stood looking at the woman’s graceful hand with perfectly manicured fingernails. After a moment, Charli rubbed her own dirty sun-browned hand on her shirt. Then she reached out and the two shook. “I guess it’ll be alright.”

VIII.

Spencer’s Boarding House sat on a corner on the east side of town. The house was a freshly-painted two-story building with a front yard bordered by a white picket fence.

When Julie and Charli arrived at the front gate, an attractive woman in her late thirties was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. After looking up, the woman placed a ribbon between the pages of the book she had been reading and laid the book aside. Then she stood up and smoothed the front of her dress with her hands.

As Julie and Charli opened the gate and started up the short walk, the woman said, “Hello Charli. Who is this with you?”

“This is my friend, Julie Weber. She’s the new school teacher.”

“Hello Miss Weber. I’m Faye Spencer. Are you looking for a room?”

“Yes I am. Your boarding house comes highly recommended.” Julie smiled and glanced at Charli.

“You’re in luck, Miss Weber. The best room I have was vacated just last week.” Faye turned and called out, “Andy. Will you come out here, please?”

A boy of about ten years old opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch. As he continued down the few steps and out onto the sidewalk, Julie noticed the boy walked with a slight limp. A younger girl walked out of the house behind the boy.

“Miss Weber, this is my son, Andy, and my daughter, Amie. Children, say hello to Miss Weber. She’s the new school teacher.”

The little girl curtsied and the boy said, “Hello Miss Weber.” He stepped forward and took the suitcase and hatbox from Julie.

“She’s going into the big room, Andy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come with me,” Faye said. “I’ll show you the house and then you can get settled into your room.”

As Julie stepped onto the porch, she noticed the book Faye had been reading was the Bible. “Oh, are you a Christian, Miss Spencer?”

“I’m struggling with it. I want to believe, but when I honestly examine my feelings I’m not sure I always do. Do all Christians feel that way?”

“I’ve never found a good answer to that question, Miss Spencer. The best I can do is to ask you a question: Do you believe the sun is going to come up tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“Does the sun’s rising depend on how you feel about it, or can you rely on the sun to come up regardless of what you feel?”

“I can rely on the sun regardless of what I feel.”

“That’s right, Miss Spencer. Each day dawns simply because the sun is what it is. In the same way, we know Jesus Christ is who He is. In other words, instead of relying on feelings that change as easily as wind scatters the leaves, we keep on relying upon Him.

“As we continue to hear and read the Gospel, our thoughts and actions, as well as our feelings, align more and more with the truth of His Word.”

Faye smiled. Then she noticed everyone had stopped and was watching her. “Oh, look at me! Where are my manners? Let’s get you settled. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

“I always have time to talk of our Lord, Miss Spencer.”

“Call me Faye.”

“Alright Faye, but you must call me Julie.”

IX.

In 1873, Denton, Texas, was a humble settlement with a population of less than four hundred residents who were mostly farmers. The town, however, did have a small bank.

The youthful Gary Blanchard was the teller at the bank. He was a rather short fellow with chestnut-brown hair and blue eyes. A personable lad, he took great pleasure in serving the small number of customers who regularly conducted business at the bank.

Blanchard was up at dawn as usual. He lived with his parents and was responsible for the early-morning and evening chores on the small farm just outside of town.

As Blanchard spread feed on the ground, the chickens clucked vigorously amid perfectly placed pecks upon those of lower order. Then he walked into the small barn and milked the family’s only cow, which had calved in the early spring.

As the sun climbed higher in the east, it lit the sky into an azure and pink tincture that promised a winsome spring day.

Done with the morning chores, Blanchard entered the house and washed his face and hands. Then he changed into his work suit. Finally, he combed his hair, paying particular attention to the unruly strands of a front cowlick.

He walked into the outer room and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Let me look at you, son.”

He obliged by standing erect and slightly lifting his heels off the floor, hoping to compensate for an embarrassingly insufficient stature.

“You’re a handsome boy.”

He turned to his father who was seated at the table. “See ya later, Pop.”

“Have a good day, son.”

When Blanchard arrived at the bank, he spent the first forty-five minutes dusting counters, emptying trash, and sweeping and mopping the floor.

By nine o’clock, he had finished counting the cash drawer and had recorded the dollar amount on the shift sheet. Then he walked to the front door and unlocked it.

Through the window in the door, he noticed several men running along the street. He opened the door and stepped outside. He had never witnessed such commotion!

He heard someone yell, “Fire!”

He looked in the direction of the livery stable. A mammoth undulating mass of smoke rose above angry flames that blazed against the sky that had promised such a lovely day.

Suddenly, he felt the point of a gun in his back!

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 2)

2008-03-01T11:51:00.002-05:00

IV.

The tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight stood motionless. He did not speak.

Deputy Mitchell felt his face flush red. The stranger was deliberately ignoring him.

Slowly, the tall stranger lifted his gaze.

Deputy Mitchell felt the stranger’s steady intent look as if an icicle had pierced his heart. He had never seen eyes so black, so completely devoid of emotion, so very cold.

Then without a word the stranger turned his back. After a calculated pause, he took a step toward the entrance of the saloon.

Deputy Mitchell felt an explosion of rage within him. He raced forward and grabbed the stranger’s arm to swing him around.

The instant his hand touched the stranger, the stranger whirled and drew his pistol in a flicker. The cocked weapon came to rest one inch from the bridge of the deputy’s nose.

Deputy Mitchell had no time to react. He stood staring into the black hole of death of the stranger’s gun.

The stranger allowed ample time for the deputy’s heart to hiccup and for the deputy to realize that, on any other occasion, the error would have been fatal.
“Lose the gun belt.”

Deputy Mitchell took a cautious breath. He reached down, unbuckled his gun belt, and let it fall to the ground.

“Now, take the badge off your chest and drop it on the ground.”

Deputy Mitchell felt his jaw tremble. His gaze again fell upon the barrel of the stranger’s gun. He unpinned his badge and dropped it to the ground.

“Now, step back. Turn and walk slowly. Tell Marshal Hickok I want to talk to him.”

V.

Riley burst into the Marshal’s office. “Mitchell’s in trouble!”

Hickok, who was seated at his desk, sprang to his feet. Riley turned and began running toward the Alamo Saloon. Hickok ran right behind him.

Halfway to the saloon, they spied Deputy Mitchell walking toward them. Both men stopped. Deputy Mitchell glanced at the two men and then he lowered his head.

Riley exclaimed, “Are you alright, son?”

Without looking up, Deputy Mitchell said, “Yes, I’m alright.”

Hickok immediately saw that the deputy was wearing neither his badge nor his gun. He pressed his lips together and drew a breath in through his nose.

“What happened?” Riley asked.

“I’ve never seen a man draw so fast.”

After a long silence, Hickok said, “Well, where’s he at? The saloon?”

Deputy Mitchell nodded.

“Come on. Let’s go get your gun and your badge. Riley, you go back to your shop.”

Hickok led the way and the deputy followed. After a few steps, Hickok turned. “Son, if anything ever happened to you I would blame myself. If you thought this fella was trouble, why didn’t you come and get me?”

“I thought I could handle it myself. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I hope you don’t believe that. I don’t. It’s your pride, son, that makes you reckless. After you collect your badge, hand it over to me. You’re suspended. Wait a week. Then come in and we’ll talk. If your attitude has changed, you can have your badge back. Understand?”

Deputy Mitchell nodded.

Hickok pointed to the badge on his chest. “This badge, son, is not about the rule of Mitchell. It’s about the rule of law. It does not serve us. We serve it.”

Deputy Mitchell continued to hang his head.

“Now, who is this fella?”

“I don’t know. He rode in earlier. Never seen him before.”

They walked to the spot where Deputy Mitchell’s badge and gun lay on the ground. Deputy Mitchell hesitated.

“Well, pick them up.”

Deputy Mitchell picked up his gun belt and strapped it on. After he picked up his badge, he held it out and Hickok took it.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“Yes, come in. You may have to point him out to me. But I doubt it.”

When the two entered the saloon, the buzz in the room fell to a hush. The tall stranger who sat in the back corner did not look up.

Glimpsing the faces of the usual crowd, Hickok followed the men’s guarded glances to the back corner.

“Stay behind me, son.”

Deputy Mitchell followed Hickok to the back corner of the saloon. The tall stranger looked up when Hickok and the deputy reached the table.

“Marshal Hickok. Right?”

Hickok immediately noticed two things. First, were those eyes as dark as midnight. Second, both hands were under the table. Was the stranger holding a gun aimed at his heart?

“Yes, I’m Hickok. You assaulted my deputy with a deadly weapon.”

“I was the one assaulted, Marshal. I plead self-defense. Several people in here saw the incident. Under oath, they would have to testify to that.”

Hickok heard the ring of truth in the stranger’s words. “What are you? Some kind of lawyer?”

“I’m no lawyer, Marshal. But, like you, I know something about the law.” As the stranger said the words, he brought his hands above the table. They were empty. Casually, he lifted his glass and sipped whiskey.

Hickok felt his stomach muscles relax a bit.

“May I ask you to join me, Marshal. I have business to discuss.”

“Business? What kind of business?”

With a leg under the table, the stranger pushed out a chair for Hickok. “You can sit down, too, Deputy. I have nothing against you.”

One side of Hickok’s mouth tightened. He glanced at Deputy Mitchell and nodded. Both men sat down.

“Who are you and what kind of business are you talking about?

“First, Marshal, can I offer you a drink?”

“No thanks. Let’s get to it.”

“Alright, Marshal, but this may take a while. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

The stranger glanced up. Hickok’s expression had not changed.

“Okay, Marshal. My name is Abe Jackson.” As he said the name, he pressed his index finger vertically to his lips. Then he reached up with his left hand and pulled the vest away from his heart.

Hickok was staring straight at a Texas Ranger badge.

Hickok blinked. Then he nodded. “That explains a lot.”

“Like I said, Marshal. I have business to discuss. You see—”

Hickok held up his hand. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

VI.

Parson Sam Blane pushed away from the small desk in his room. Cupping his hand above the chimney globe on the oil lamp, he blew out the flame. Already it was morning.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids. He had spent most of the night in study and prayer. Then he had returned to writing: polishing old sermons, developing new ones, and finally he had had time to work on his manuscript.

Several members of the Abilene congregation had asked him to write an exposition on St. Luke’s Gospel, and he had been happy to oblige.

Ironically, Abilene itself had been named for a verse in the Gospel of St. Luke. The story goes that in 1860 the people of the Kansas territory foresaw the coming of statehood. About then in Dickinson County where Abilene is located, a contest developed over the selection of a county seat.

A man by the name of C.H. Thompson laid out a town site on his land east of Mud Creek. He hastily constructed several log houses to give the appearance of a town. He then asked his neighbor, Tim Hersey, to give the new town a name.

Mr. Hersey referred the matter to his wife. Mrs. Hersey found a reference in Luke 3:1 that speaks of the “tetrarch of Abilene.” She decided that “Abilene,” which means “city of the plains,” would be appropriate, and so the town was named.

Over the years of traveling from town to town, Blane had made Abilene the hub of his activities. He received his mail at the town’s post office and he kept a room at the Merchant’s Hotel.

Now, at the beginning of a six-month sabbatical, Blane was grateful for the opportunity to engage in concentrated study. The hiatus would also afford him time to recuperate from the rigors of constant travel. Finally, he hoped to gain a fresh outlook on his service to the Lord.

Blane stepped to the bed and sat down. He kicked off his boots and lay back. He had spent the entire night awake and he needed a few hours of sleep. After his nap, he planned to spend the afternoon at the site where a new church building was under construction. He enjoyed visiting with the other congregation members who were helping to build the church. Also, he found the physical exercise of construction labor invigorating.

Before long, Blane was dreaming. He stood on the edge of a cliff. Suddenly, the rock crumbled beneath his feet, and he fell straight down. Tumbling, tumbling. His fear vanished when the speed of his fall began to decrease. He was able to lift his head and soar horizontally above the valley floor.

He landed gently on his feet in a meadow. He heard the birds’ staccato warbles and he smelled the scent of pine trees. He turned and saw his wife, Sarah. She wore a shimmering white dress and her hair flowed in the wind.

They sat together in the plush green grass. She played her guitar and sang for him. Suddenly, her guitar turned into a baby wrapped warmly in a soft blanket.

“Shh,” she said to the crying child, and the infant became calm. Sarah extended her arms, holding the baby out for Blane to take into his embrace.

He reached for the child but Sarah and the child drew away. He stepped forward, but again the two drew away. He began to run toward them. But they quickly withdrew until at last they disappeared.

He called but they did not answer. He sat down and began to weep. He wept as he had when he was a very young child, holding nothing back, crying uncontrollably. A sharp tapping noise caused him to turn his head. For a moment, he was outside himself, seeing and hearing himself weep. The tapping noise grew louder and more insistent. Again he turned. He turned. He turned. And then he was half awake.

A series of sharp knocks came at the door to his room.

For a moment, he could not determine where he was. The knocks came again. He turned and looked. Then, not knowing whether or not someone was there, he said, “It’s open.”

Deputy Mitchell opened the door and stuck his head in. “Parson Blane?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Marshal Hickok sent me to fetch you. There’s something important you must hear.”

“What is it?”

“It’s best you come with me. I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay, let me get my boots on and splash some water on my face.”

VII.

When Blane and Deputy Mitchell entered the Alamo Saloon, Deputy Mitchell said, “Follow me. They’re over here.”

Blane saw Hickok and another man sitting at a table in the back corner of the saloon. When Blane and Deputy Mitchell reached the table, Hickok said, “Hello Parson. Sit down. I want you to hear what this man has to say.”

As Blane sat down, Hickok said, “Parson, this is Abe Jackson.” Hickok lowered his voice. “He’s a Texas Ranger.”

“Parson,” Jackson said, “you ever hear of Frank Stayton?”

“Frank Stayton? No. Like most everybody, I’ve heard of Gil Stayton, a professional gunfighter. But I’ve never heard of Frank Stayton.”

“Gil is one of Frank Stayton’s sons. You remember the man you turned over to Marshal Hickok last summer?”

“How could I forget? Wade Caldwell.”

“You also killed his brother, Clem, in self-defense.”

“That’s right, Mr. Jackson. But when it happened I didn’t know Wade and Clem were brothers.”

“Well, Wade and Clem were brothers by blood. But they were raised by Frank Stayton. Like Wade and Clem, most of the Staytons are wanted by the law. Dead or alive.

“You want a drink, Parson? I want to lay this out from the beginning.”

Blane settled back in the chair. “I could stand a good cup of coffee.”

Deputy Mitchell said, “I’ll get you one.”

Jackson drew in a breath. “What I’m about to tell you, Parson, I want you to keep to yourself as much as possible. My intention is to bring the Staytons to justice, and I don’t want anyone tipping them off. If word gets around about this, my job will be a lot harder. Understand?”

Blane glanced down and then back at Jackson. “Okay.”

“You see, Wade and Clem were raised by Frank Stayton from the time the two boys were infants.” Jackson took a sip of whiskey. “Old man Stayton took the boys in after his sister, Bessie Caldwell, died. Tom Caldwell, Bessie’s husband, had been killed earlier in a bar fight in El Paso.”

Jackson finished off the whiskey in his glass. “To Frank Stayton, Wade and Clem were his sons, just like the rest of his sons.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I’m afraid you’re in a lot of trouble, Parson. You killed Clem and brought Wade in and he was hanged. The Staytons will be out for revenge. They won’t stop until they hunt you down and kill you.”

“But you said it yourself, Mr. Jackson. I acted in self-defense.”

“To Frank Stayton and his sons, that doesn’t matter. You’re responsible for the deaths of Wade and Clem. A few years back, Toby Stayton was run over by a wagon and died. It was purely an accident. But within a month, the driver of the wagon was found with his throat slit. That’s the way the Staytons operate. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

“And here’s the bad news.”

“You mean that’s not bad enough?”

“I’m afraid not, Parson. The bad news is that Frank Stayton had twelve sons!”

Blane closed his eyes and shook his head. “Are you telling me there are twelve brothers who are out to kill me?”

“Wade, Clem and Toby are dead. That would have made nine brothers plus Frank himself. But less than a week ago, a bounty hunter, named Royce Lee, turned over the corpse of Al Stayton, one of the middle sons, to the Marshal in Fort Worth. That probably means the Staytons are traveling north.

“It’s a stretch to imagine Royce Lee could have picked off Al Stayton if Al was riding with the entire clan. I’m guessing Al was alone. It could be that Frank Stayton is leading only part of the family and plans to join up south of here with the sons who sometimes ride alone.

“One thing’s for sure. Sooner or later they’ll show up. As warped as it is, it’s like a code of ethics with them: An eye for an eye and all of that. When they come, they’ll want blood.”

“But why now? Wade was hanged almost eight months ago.”

“My guess is they were waiting for the weather to break.”

Deputy Mitchell returned to the table and placed a cup of coffee in front of Blane.

Blane looked down at the rising steam from the black liquid. “Thanks.”

Hickok glanced at Jackson, “You know, of course, you’re out of your jurisdiction.”

Jackson lifted the whiskey glass to his lips and realized the glass was empty. He set it back on the table. “I’m perfectly happy, Marshal, to turn any of the Staytons I run across over to you. If we happen to capture a few, we can extradite them. These men have committed enough crimes in Texas to hang a hundred men. But I doubt that will happen.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they won’t give up without a fight. Besides, Marshal, before it’s over, you may be glad I’m here. You’ll need all the help you can get when they show up.”

Hickok gulped down the last of his whiskey. “But you’re only one man. How are you going to round up all these Staytons?”

“I can’t guarantee anything, Marshal. That’s why I’m warning you and the Parson. But I’ve been after these men a long time. Now I have precisely what I’ve needed all along.”

“What’s that?”

Jackson looked at Blane. “Bait.”

Blane glanced down. His coffee was getting cold. “So I’m the cheese in the trap.”

“Can you handle that gun you’re wearing, Parson?”

“I’m fair.”

“I’d advise you to get a lot better in a hurry. They’re after you, Parson. They may come at you one or two at a time, or they may come at you all at once. But on that day, you better be in good standing with your Lord.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in Hope (Episode 1)

2008-01-06T13:53:00.000-05:00

I.

His horse at full gallop, the tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight rode in an arrow-straight line toward Abilene.

In the black of night, the stranger felt the persistent rhythm of the animal’s long, swift strides. Keeping his head down, the brim of his hat partially guarded his face from the brisk, chilly wind.

After more than a mile, he reined in and the horse slowed to a steady lope. After another mile, the stranger reined in, again. The animal slowed to a walk, and both horse and rider relaxed a bit.

The stranger’s trail had been hard and very long. Genuine urgency had quickened the relentless pace of the trip. Still, the stranger had been careful to stay within his own endurance limits, as well as within those of the high-spirited beast beneath him.

The stranger smiled briefly in approval as the darkness over the plains began to lift. He saw the sun’s fiery red reflection off of high, wispy clouds in the east.

The stranger always welcomed the precise moment when the sun peaked over the horizon. This morning, he especially anticipated the dawn that would bring warmth to what had been a chilly night.

The rays of the sun crawled along the ground, gradually engulfing the grasslands in yellow-gold light and banishing the darkness that had shrouded the stranger’s trail. Even now, in the wee hours of the morning, he felt a tinge of the sun’s soothing warmth. He stretched his arms and shoulders and straightened his back, causing him to sit a bit taller in the saddle.

He kissed at the air and lifted the reins, “Get up.”

The horse accelerated to a trot. When the animal felt a touch of spurs, he continued to accelerate to a canter.

The horse kept the easy pace for nearly half an hour. When his master reined in, he came to a halt, enjoying the flush of hot blood to his legs and chest.

To the north, the stranger could see Abilene. He sat still in the saddle for several minutes, allowing the animal to catch his breath.

The tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight scanned the entire landscape to the east and to the west. When he twisted in the saddle and looked behind him, he visually scanned slowly and deliberately. Nothing moved.

He pulled the six-shooter from his holster and checked the load. Then he holstered the weapon and again lifted the reins. “Let’s go, boy.”

Although he had never been to Abilene, he had prepared thoroughly for the trip. Now, on a spring morning in 1873, the tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight reviewed what he knew about the town.

Abilene, Kansas, was a town in transition. Its history was that of a rip-roaring cow town with a reputation for wild lawlessness. Two major events, however, had recently occurred that had dampened the town’s turbulent disposition.

The first major event was the relocation of the shipping terminal for the longhorn cattle drives from Texas. Wichita was now the primary shipping center.

Abilene’s loss of the prosperous cattle business was due in part to its accelerated growth. As Abilene and the surrounding area had become more populated, grazing lands became scarcer. Also, many of the settlers objected to the pasturing of the great herds in the vicinity.

The primary reason, however, for Abilene’s loss of the cattle trade was the completion of the Santa Fe Railroad facilities at Wichita. Now the stronger competitor, Wichita had shipped about 80,000 head of cattle in 1872 alone.

From 1867 to 1872, Abilene was known as the “Cowboy Capital.” More than three million head of cattle had been driven up from Texas on the Chisholm Trail.

By 1871 as many as 5,000 cowboys were often paid off during a single day. This circumstance led to the town’s deserved reputation as a rough-and-tumble town of the West. Now, however, the cattle drives to Abilene had ended.

The second major event that contributed to the taming of Abilene was the appointment in 1871 of a no-nonsense, 33-year-old Marshal named James Butler Hickok.

Whereas Abilene had been wild and rough in the recent past, now, in early 1873, the town was seeking its equilibrium. Although still untamed at times, Abilene, nevertheless, had begun to mature and settle down.

The tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight continued to ride toward Abilene.

II.

Some women who fit the mold of what society terms “pretty” quickly learn they can have their desires met easily. Sometimes their demands on others, therefore, tend to increase until they become arrogant and impossible to please.

In this sense, being “pretty” is a curse, because the circumstance tends to produce the attitude that what one receives is an entitlement, rather than the product of one’s efforts

No one would ever deny that 23-year-old Julie Weber was pretty. Her smooth complexion, high cheek bones and huge blue eyes caused men to peer longingly. Her 5’7” frame had curves in all the right places and her long, naturally blond hair had caused many men to turn and stare.

But Julie Weber had never given in to the temptation to become arrogant and impossible to please. Instead at an early age, she had given her heart, mind, and soul to Jesus Christ. She cherished the divinely inspired words of St. Paul when he wrote in 2 Corinthians; Chapter 5 and Verse 15: Christ died for all so that those who live would not continue to live for themselves. He died for them and was raised from the dead so that they would live for him.[1]

“So, tell me, pretty lady. Where are you headed in this godforsaken country?” The words spewed out of the elderly man’s mouth like bad whiskey.

“Sir,” Julie said, “I would appreciate your calling me ‘Miss Weber.’ And whether you know it or not, God can be found in every part of this country. If you look at it in the right way.”

The elderly man cocked his head back and waggled it from side to side. “Well, aren’t we Miss Prim and Proper!”

The stagecoach rolled over a pothole in the trail and all four passengers were thrown up and down in their seats.

“You’ll have to excuse my husband, Miss Weber,” the woman sitting beside the elderly man said. “He was shot in the head in the war and the bullet is still lodged there. He suffers from terrible headaches. He drinks to ease the pain.”

Julie shifted her gaze to the elderly man, who held a flask in his hand. Unable to help it, she tried to see a scar, or mark, or wound where the bullet had entered. No scar, however, was visible. She concluded the wound was either under his hat or in the back of his head.

“How terrible,” she said. “I apologize if I sounded snippy.”

A slight smile came to the thin lips of the elderly man. He touched the brim of his hat. “I apologize for being so familiar, Miss Weber. However, if I may ask again: Where are you headed?”

“I’m on my way to Abilene. But ever since I got on this stagecoach I’ve been wishing I had taken the train. I had the notion I would see more of the countryside by coach.”

“Well, take a look out the window, Miss Weber. See the rolling plains? Now multiply that by thousands, and that’s what this country is like.”

Despite herself, Julie could not help but smile. She nodded, “Yes, I see.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I could have seen all I needed to see from the train, huh?”

The man sitting beside Julie glanced at her and asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Weber, why are you traveling to Abilene?”

“I’m going to teach school there.”

“Oh, that’s right. Bonnie Somerset is retiring.”

The stagecoach rolled over another pothole and again all four were bounced up and down.

“I don’t know about that,” Julie said, straightening her hat. “I answered a classified in the newspaper and they hired me.”

“Yes, that’s it. Bonnie is retiring. She’s quite old, you know.”

“Tell me about the school and the children, won’t you?”

“I don’t know much about the school. The wife and I were never blessed with children.”

“I see. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s okay with me, Miss Weber. But I feel sorry for my wife, Agnes. She always wanted children. I suppose that’s part of a woman’s nature: the desire to be a mother.”

“Yes, that’s true for me. Children are so precious. But it’s a big responsibility, too. It’s up to the parents to help form the minds and hearts of their children. What’s the old saying? ‘As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.’”

The man turned and looked at her curiously. “That sounds about right.”

“I think it’s important to educate the young mind. One must encourage a young person’s vision of how to fulfill his potential by contributing to society in a positive way. Don’t you agree?”

“Miss Weber, I believe you will make an excellent teacher for our school.”

Julie blushed. “Thank you. But I must confess, this is my first teaching assignment, and I’m a bit nervous.”

“Miss Weber, I wouldn’t worry about a thing. I think you’ll do just fine.”

III.

Marshal Hickok had just finished his second cup of coffee when Deputy Mitchell opened the door and stuck his head in. “Morning round is complete, Jim. Everything’s fine. I’ll be over at Riley’s. He said he got a shipment in of those new Colt pistols. I want to take a look at one.”

“Don’t forget,” Hickok said. “That new school teacher is coming in on the stage today. We want to show her a nice welcome.”

“Yeah, she’s probably as old as dirt and looks just like it!”

“You mind your mouth, son,” Hickok said sternly. “Get on over to Riley’s if you have to. Then get right back. I’ve got some paperwork for you to do.”

“Okay, Jim. Thanks.”

Deputy Mitchell was a young man not yet twenty years old. He was tall and slender and he wore his coal-black hair slicked straight back. He was left-handed and a fast draw. Hickok, however, was careful to keep a tight rein on the lad, because the deputy tended toward recklessness. For Deputy Mitchell, the badge on his chest was a symbol of power that the young man too often used to bolster his ego.

With time and experience, Hickok figured, Deputy Mitchell would learn to respect the authority behind the badge. He had counseled the lad on that very subject numerous times. Still, Hickok worried about his protégé. In this town, there were just too many ways a man could get killed.

Deputy Mitchell was about to enter Riley’s Gun Shop when something made him stop and look.

Seeing Deputy Mitchell through the window, Joe Riley walked out. “Come to see one of those new Colts?”

When Deputy Mitchell did not answer, Riley turned to see what had caught the young deputy’s attention.

The horse’s hooves puffed the dust on the main thoroughfare. The stranger who sat tall in the saddle was unconcerned with the stares of several onlookers, including Deputy Mitchell and Riley.

“Who is that?” Deputy Mitchell asked.

“Never seen him before.”

The words were exchanged while both men continued to watch the rider.

“Gunfighter?” Deputy Mitchell asked.

“Somehow I don’t think so. Could be, though.”

“I think I’ll find out.”

Riley put his hand on the deputy’s arm. “Careful, son. Something tells me he’s dangerous.”

Deputy Mitchell turned his head and looked down at Riley’s hand on his arm. Seeing this, Riley said, “I mean it, boy. Be careful with this fella. Understand?”

“Take your hand off my arm, Joe. You’re giving me the willies.”

“Why don’t you let Hickok handle this?”

“I can handle this,” Deputy Mitchell said indignantly.

“Son, you still got a lot of learning to do. I’m going to get the Marshal.”

Deputy Mitchell pulled his arm out of Riley’s grasp. “There’s no need to bother the Marshal!” Then he turned and walked along the wooden-plank sidewalk. All the while, he curiously watched the stranger.

At the Alamo Saloon, the stranger pulled up and dismounted. He was tying his horse to the hitching rail when Deputy Mitchell crossed the street.

At twenty paces, Deputy Mitchell called out, “Can I help you, stranger?”

The stranger lowered his head and stared sideways at the ground. Deputy Mitchell walked up to a spot where, had he taken another step, the stranger would have been looking at his boots.

The stranger did not speak, did not move.

Deputy Mitchell was confused by the stranger’s lack of response. “I said, can I help you?”

Again, the stranger did not speak, did not move.

“Hey, Mister, I’m talking to you!”

TO BE CONTINUED

Comment on HOPE (Episode 1)

Some people are awestricken when they look out upon the Earth, the Moon, and the stars. They point to the idea that life is the creative work of an all-powerful and majestic God. Others, like the elderly drunkard in the story, see the world as gray and bleak. Their attitude proclaims that life inspires no meaning, no enthusiasm, and no beauty. Yet, the Earth, the Moon, and the stars are the same.

What accounts for the difference in perspective between those who see the world as an infinite display of wonder and those who view the world as a vast, undifferentiated wasteland?

Logic says that, since the external world is the same, the difference between the two views must lie within the individual.

When we meet someone who always seems to grate on our nerves, we tend to blame the person. If the person, however, actually possessed the character trait of grating on people’s nerves, then everyone who came in contact with that individual would feel irritated. We know, of course, that someone who happens to irritate us also gets along perfectly fine with some others. The difference? Again, the distinction between how we react to an individual and how someone else reacts to the same individual lies within us.

That which specifically determines how we experience the world, others, and all of life is our beliefs. Beliefs structure experience. When someone irritates us, for example, the root cause of our irritation is not the person. Rather it is the belief we hold about the person. To change our reaction to the person, all we need do is change the belief within us that causes our irritation toward that person.

The elderly drunkard in the story saw the endless plains as “godforsaken.” Julie Weber saw the same endless plains and
declared “…God can be found in every part of this country. If you look at it in the right way.”

So, what is the right way to look at the Earth, the Moon, and the stars, and others, and life itself? To put it another way, what beliefs should we adopt and hold dear so as to structure our experience of life in the right way?

If you were to look to me to give you the answer, you would be making a big mistake. If you were to look to other people to give you the answer; similarly, you would be making a big mistake. Only when you look to the true source of life, He who created it, will you find the right answer. Fortunately for us, the Creator of all things has chosen to reveal himself in his Word, the Holy Scriptures as contained in the Bible. "The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth. The one who comes from heaven is above all.” John 3:31 (NIV)

God’s Word has the power to instill and to strengthen true faith. Faith in God, when it is an abiding belief within, structures the right experience of all of life. That’s why Julie Weber was able to announce without reservation that “…God can be found in every part of this country….” The rock-solid, abiding faith within her heart spoke the words for her. “…those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart….” Matt 15:18 (KJV)

So then, what is the right way to experience the Earth, the Moon, and the stars?

Ps 89:11
11 The heavens are yours, and yours also the earth; you founded the world and all that is in it. (NIV)

Heb 1:10
10 And, Thou, Lord, in the beginning hast laid the foundation of the earth; and the heavens are the works of thine hands: (KJV)

Let us, therefore, always be conscious of the fact that when we observe the beauty of nature it is something even more than what it appears to be. It is, in fact, the observable evidence that proves there is the God who created it.

Heb 11:3
3 By faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that the things which are seen were not made of things which are visible. (NKJ)

And, as to others (even those who remind us of our belief that such people irritate us), we can view them for who they truly are: either children of God, or those who are in dire need, because they have not repented and accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.

Matt 7:12
12 So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets. (NIV)

Luke 10:27
27 He answered: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"
(NIV)

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[1] New Century Version